Master of Assassins 1: Steel
by Jaenelle Angelline
Summary: Gambit falls for a professional assassin who has orders to kill him but falls for the ol' Cajun charm instead. Finished. Read and review please! Thanks!
1. Default Chapter

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Note to readers: This was originally written six years ago, during my senior year in high school. I put up the original version just for the heck of it, because I didn't think it was good. In fact, I never finished it. But I got some surprisingly good reviews, so here's the revised story; read and enjoy! Usual disclaimers apply. The Assassins are my creation, though, and so is Cat.

Chapter 1: Bloodcat

_CRASH!_

The sound of a metal trashcan hitting the ground caught Gambit's ear as he stood outside the bar, finishing his cigarette before heading home. He took a couple of steps to the end of the building, tossed his cigarette into a nearby puddle, then looked through the light drizzle down the alley.

"No! No, please, who are you!" came a voice, and he saw someone lying on the ground, creeping back slowly against the wall, and a menacing figure in black standing in front of him. The black-clad figure said something, and he whined, "I didn't do it, I swear I didn't!"

Gambit crept unnoticed, down the alley, in time to hear the other person say, "You did. Don't lie, you sniveling piece of scum!" He couldn't identify the voice as belonging to a man or a woman; the figure was probably using a distorter. There was a quiet _ssshhhht_ sound of a blade being drawn, and Gambit suddenly saw bright steel gleam in the dim light from the street lamp behind him as a long sword was placed at the man's throat. He was about to step in when the sword holder spoke. "Just between us, my dear man," the sword's holder crooned. "There's no one here but me to hear. Tell me. Did you?"

"All right, all right!" the man on the ground whined. "Yeah, I did. The bitch had it coming to her! She was always complaining, always whining, so I just slit her throat! There, are you happy?"

"Yes, came that voice again, and the steel was drawn across the man's throat. The man screamed, and the steel came back bloody. Gambit watched the sword-holder take a pair of handcuffs and snap them around the man's wrists, then pull the man forcibly down the alley toward him.

He ducked back into the shadows of the building, hoping not to be seen. From what he'd just seen, whoever this guy was, he deserved what he was getting. Cutting some woman's throat…Gambit decided he wasn't going to interfere. He watched as the helpless man was cuffed to a nearby street lamp. Come daylight, he'd be picked up by whatever patrol car was passing by. Then, under the light of the street lamp, he saw the figure pull a microcassette out of a recorder clipped to his belt, tuck it into a case, and put the case into the man's pocket. "That cassette better not get lost," said the sword wielder. "Make sure you show it to the police when they come to get you."

"You're not going to leave me here all night!" the man whined, his voice rising in panic. "My throat's bleeding! I'll die!"

"Do you want to die?" the figure hissed, his face only inches from the man's. "I didn't cut you deep enough to kill you, but I can if you push me. It will stop. The worst you'll have is a scar. Not like her, is it? She'll never live to see her children grow up because _you_ killed her. And she was the mother of your children, too! Think about that every time you look into a mirror and see that scar." The figure turned and was gone in an instant, moving so fast that Gambit almost didn't see him leave.

He detached himself from the shadows, and sprinted for his motorcycle, getting on it as he saw another motorcycle speed out of another alley just ahead of him. He grinned as he revved up the engine. This was going to be fun.

The two motorcycles roared down the nearly deserted street. At some point, the rider ahead of Gambit turned and looked behind him, and saw he was being pursued. The other increased his speed. Gambit followed suit. 

They performed a skillful game of tag, in and out of streets and alleys, winding ever further downtown. They got to a section Gambit knew well; he tuned down an alley so narrow only a motorcycle could have got through it, and made a sharp left, braking to a stop in the middle of a narrow one-way street. He sat and waited, lighting a cigarette. Sure enough, a minute later, the mysterious cyclist turned the corner and skidded to a stop as his headlights picked up Gambit's bike blocking his way.

"Going somewhere, _homme_?" Gambit said. 

The figure got off the cycle and drew his sword as he stepped forward. Gambit held up a hand. "Whoa dere, I ain't here lookin' for a fight," he said. 

The sword lowered. "Then why are you following me?"

"Wanta know what you're doin' here," Gambit said. "I saw you take out dat little scum bag back dere," and he jerked a thumb back somewhere behind him, even though he had no idea which direction the handcuffed man probably was. "Jus' curious. Who are you, an' what are you doin'?"

The figure's eyes narrowed. "I don't see where it's your business," he snarled. "Get out of my way."

"Not till you answer my question, frien'," Gambit responded. 

The swordsman sheathed his sword, made a sound of disgust, and jumped onto his bike. "Stay out of my way!" he called as his bike did a hard 180 and sped off the way it came. Gambit hopped on his and followed at a discreet distance, staying out of sight this time. 

About ten minutes later, he saw the bike's owner park it in a parking garage for a slightly upscale complex not far from where the handcuffed man was waiting for the cops. Gambit hid a grin, parked his own bike beside the other one, and climbed the fire escape after the other cyclist, watching as he climbed into a third floor apartment. He hunkered down outside, on the fire escape, and peeked cautiously in.

Catryne Steel sighed as she pulled the black scarf holding the distorter over her mouth off, revealing full, sensuous lips. A moment later, the black wrapping around her head came off, and she unpinned her hair, letting the thick auburn waves cascade around her shoulders. "I really should dye it black," she said to herself, looking in the tall mirror hanging across the back of her couch. "Less noticeable."

She stripped off the black shirt she wore, tossed it onto the couch, then reached around her side for the end to the long Ace bandage wrapped tightly around her breasts. She gave a huge sigh of relief as it came free, and she wound it carefully back up as it came free of her chest. She rubbed the throbbing flesh for a minute, examining the marks left on the pale skin, then put the shirt back on, stripped off her skin-tight black pants and undid the bandage around her waist. "Maybe I should stop trying to look like a guy," she groaned as she massaged the marks left on her skin from the tight wrappings. "But then again, who'd take me seriously if I didn't?"

She crossed the room, clad in nothing but the T-shirt and a pair of plain black briefs, and went to her desk. Taking a small gold key from her neck, she inserted it into a padlock on a small door under her desk, and opened it. Taking out a black book, she opened it as she sat down, scribbled a note in it, and put the book back. She reached for the phone next, dialed a number, and let it ring. When someone answered, she pulled the distorter in front of her mouth and said. "It's done. The police will find him in the morning with the confession. When do I receive the payment?"

She listened to the phone for a moment, then said, "If I had my way he would have been found dead, and I wouldn't have had to wait until it hits the news. But all right, I will wait until he's convicted." Silence for a moment, then she said, "He was a whining pathetic fool. He admitted right away. I didn't have to hurt him. But I left the souvenir on his neck just as you asked." Her voice softened a bit as she said, "Out of respect for your loss, Mr. Marsden, I will reduce my fee. Ten thousand only." She listened for a moment, then nodded. "Right. We will expect the payment in the account we discussed by the end of the week." She hung up, and leaned back in her chair for a moment, eyes closed.

Out on the fire escape, Gambit settled back on his heels, letting out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. She was gorgeous. He wondered how he could have missed noticing she was a woman. She didn't move like a man, talk like a man, and from here she sure as hell didn't look like a man! He wanted so much to be able to run his hands up the firm, smooth legs, to the nicely tucked-in waist, to those nice soft breasts… He almost groaned at the memory of that body coming out of the clothes she'd wrapped herself in. Who the hell was she?

He peeked back in. He couldn't see her. Where was she? He poked his head out a little further, scanning what he could see, and then he quietly slipped up the window sash and climbed into the apartment. It was nicely but sparsely furnished. A couch, upholstered in a neutral beige; the large mirror, in a gilded frame; a TV/DVD combo, receiver and stereo system with impressive speakers filled a dark wood entertainment center. He slipped into the kitchen. It was almost obsessively neat. No dishes sat in the sink. He heard a sudden soft noise from behind him, and whirled.

He gasped in pain as a sharp silver blade slashed open his bicep. He looked up, into a pair of blue eyes that glittered in fury. "What the hell are you doing in here?" hissed the woman in front of him. He couldn't answer for a moment; she had obviously just been getting into a bath, and her long legs were dripping wet. It took a moment to find his voice. "Lookin' fer you, p'tite."

She wanted to smile. Best way to keep a man off guard was to show him a pretty woman. She noticed the well-toned physique, and smiled to herself. Keep her off guard by showing her a fine-looking man. She didn't show any of that amusement as her eyes narrowed. "Really," she said, but the sword didn't waver. "Why?"

"Curious," he sucked in a breath as the slash on his arm began to drip blood on the clean white tile of the kitchen floor. She held the sword in one hand as she inched over to a bank of drawers and pulled out a towel. She threw it to him. "Clean yourself up, Cajun."

"How'd you know?" he asked in surprise. 

She didn't blink. "Lived down in the bayous myself, once," she said. "Now let's start over, Cajun, and the truth this time. What the hell are you doing in my apartment? And how much did you hear?" The sword didn't waver.

"I followed you here 'cause I was curious, not'in' more," Gambit said. The cut on his arm was rapidly staining the towel red. He tried to focus on the conversation, not the pain. "I heard you on de phone wit' your client," he said finally, deciding to be truthful. "An' don' worry, p'tite, your secret be safe wit' me. Remy got his own secrets, too."

"What secret?" Boy, was she tough. She wasn't going to let up on him anytime soon.

"Yer a merc," he said. "You take out yer targets fer money. But from what I seen, you got a conscience too. Ya care 'bout de people you be avengin'." Before she could say anything, he said, "Now I got a question for you. What's yer name?"

Her mouth twitched, as if she were trying not to smile. "You got your own secrets, too? So tell me." At his wary look, she laughed out loud, a musical, melodic sound that made his blood heat up. Her voice had a deep, husky quality that was doing things to his libido. As was her current state of undress. 'If you have one of my secrets, Cajun, then I should have one of yours. You tell anyone about me, I tell them about you. It's fair."

He thought about that with his teeth gritted for a while, then said, "I'm one of de X-Men. You know, de outlaws you hear 'bout on de tube."

Her eyes went wide. "Oh, my. I have one of the X-Men bleeding on my floor?" she sheathed the sword in its scabbard, lying across the back of a chair, and scrambled to his side. She had heard about the X-Men. It was hard not to, with their names all over the news. She had the utmost respect for them; they were a tough, well-trained, flawless team, working for a city that mostly didn't even want them around. 

She vanished back into the bathroom, coming out shortly with a first-aid kit. "I'm sorry," she said remorsefully, as she got another towel, dampened it at the sink, and wiped the blood from his arm. "Come on," she said, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "Let's get this off you." She pulled his dark green T-shirt off him. Underneath, his torso was impressively muscled, and she couldn't help looking appreciatively at the firm muscles under the smooth skin. A few scars here and there marred the perfection, but overall he was a fine specimen of man. 

She pushed aside her own thoughts and concentrated on caring for the man. She had cut him much deeper than she intended to, and the blood wasn't going to stop without a fight. As good a shape as he was in, she didn't think he was going to be able to stand losing any more blood. Already she could see his eyes going vaguely unfocused as blood loss began to take its toll. She pressed a wad of gauze to his arm until the bleeding slowed, then stopped, and then she bandaged it tightly. 

"P'tite?" he said, his eyes unfocused. 

"Yes?" she said, cleaning blood off the rest of his skin.

"Don' think…I'm goin' to make it home…" and he suddenly keeled over, unconscious. She checked to see if he was breathing, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "You were drinking," she said accusingly to the unconscious man, shaking a finger at him. After a moment she bent over, and got her arm under his. "Come on, Cajun, into bed," she grunted as she half-dragged, half carried him into her own room, depositing him on her bed. She pulled off his boots and socks, set them neatly on the floor beside her bed, and pulled the blanket up over his broad chest. Then she tiptoed quietly to her dresser, retrieved a tank top, underclothing, and a pair of boxers, and tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door quietly. She stepped back into her bath, yelping as the now-cold water hit her bare skin. She didn't want to drain the tub and wait for it to fill again, so she washed quickly, dried, and got into her nightclothes. She popped a blanket out of the closet, grabbed a spare pillow, and, exhausted, dropped onto her couch for some sleep._ Just a few hours_, she told herself as her eyes closed.

Gambit woke slowly, blinking at the sunlight streaming in the window. He yawned, then stared at the blanket. Gray. He didn't have gray sheets. He looked up in puzzlement, and saw himself reflected in the mirror over the dresser across the room. It all came back in a rush. He must have passed out while the woman was bandaging his arm, because he sure didn't remember getting into bed. 

He got up, tiptoeing on bare feet out of the bedroom to the living room. She was there, on the couch, asleep. The blanket that covered her lay in a heap on the floor, and he could see goosebumps on her skin. As quietly as he could, he picked up the blanket and draped it over her again. A small sound stopped him. "No," she was whispering, "no, no, no, please, not them, no…" A tear trickled down her cheek, and she turned restlessly, dislodging the blanket again. He thought about waking her, decided dryly that he didn't want to get hurt again, and instead went to her kitchen. Coffee was next on his list of things he wanted, and he rummaged quietly in her cupboards until he found a can of Folgers Dark Roast. He smiled appreciatively. She was his kind of woman. He made some for himself, unsure how strong she liked hers, and drank his black as he waited for her to wake. In the silence of the apartment, he winced at the pain in her voice. 

"No, please. I want out. Let me go. I've done this for you long enough. I want to go home." Such longing, such sadness, in her voice. "Please, I'm tired of all the killing. I want to go home." She lapsed into silence for a while, then she turned over suddenly. "No! No, let me go, you're hurting me, okay, I'll fill my contract, please, I can't bear it anymore…" 

She started to claw at her blankets, shrieking, and Gambit had enough. He grasped her flailing hands firmly, and said soothingly, ""P'tite, wake up. Its over, wake up. C'mon. Open your eyes, chere…" And finally she did, and he was shaken by the depths of pain and anguish in their endless blue depths. He hugged her close, making soft comforting sounds. She tried to pull away, but he just held her closer, until her body stopped shaking. Only then did he let her go. "Wan' to talk 'bout it, chere?"

"No," she said shortly, getting up off the couch. The bathroom door slammed after her.

He wandered back into the kitchen, looked at the pot of coffee. After a night like that, she'd really need a strong cup. He reset the coffeemaker to brew another pot of strong black coffee, then opened the refrigerator and started to pull out fixings for breakfast. By the time she came out of the bathroom, he had eggs and a spicy fried rice waiting for her. She poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down silently at the kitchen table, and accepted with a mumbled 'thanks' the plate he set in front of her. With the first bite though, she said, surprised, "This is good."

"T'ank you," he said. They ate in silence for a while. He didn't say anything until they finished breakfast and she was doing the dishes. Then he said, "Sometime it help to talk 'bout t'ings, chere."

"Then let's talk about your arm," she said. "How's it feel?" She stared at him again, with those incredible blue eyes of hers, and he decided that if she didn't want to talk about it, he wouldn't push it. He looked at the bandage, surprised. "I didn't even t'ink 'bout it, chere."

She grinned, but there was a strained look around her eyes. "Okay, I guess you're healed. I got some stuff I have to do today, and I'm already late, so if you don't mind…"

"Don' min' at all, chere," he said, retrieving his boots and socks from her bedroom. "Remy got one question, though."

"Is that your name? Remy?" she said.

"Oui, chere. Remy LeBeau." Busy tying up his boot, he didn't see the start of surprise she gave at the mention of his name. "An' you?"

She smiled at him, but her face had an odd sort of expression, and he sensed the change in the air as he looked up. "I'm known as Bloodcat on the street," she said. 

He waited. She said nothing. Remy got the message. "So you not goin' to tell me your real name," he said. She shook her head.

"Okay. Suit me fine for now. Do I get t' ask you again at a later date?" he said, deliberately stepping into her personal space. For a moment he thought she was going to back off, then she stepped up to him. He felt the intoxicating closeness of her body, and his began to react. He took a deep breath of her shampoo, the dark chestnut locks still damp from her morning shower, and smelled jasmine and roses.

"Are you asking me out on a date?" she blinked.

He grinned, swept her hand up in his own, and kissed the back of it. "Oui, chere. Remy wan' to know if you wan' him to pick you up at eight tonight."

"I don't think so," she said. 

Gambit left her apartment, thinking quite hard. Tough girl, she was. He still didn't know what had happened; she had been pleasant until he mentioned his name. Then…nothing. It was as if she'd brought a brick wall down between them. 

"Well, de cards be down, chere," he said. "an' Remy be up to de challenge. Bring it on."


	2. The Master

Chapter 2: The Master

Catryne closed the door behind him, and slumped down against it, fighting tears. She wanted to say yes, she really did, but she had made a personal resolution long ago to never become emotionally involved with her marks. And Remy LeBeau was a mark; a very lucrative one. The next one down on her list, actually.

"I have to go and see the Master," she said to herself, getting to her feet and scrambling into her clothes. 

It was a short hop downtown to the offices of the Master. He operated a small bookshop and did some legitimate business that way; but his real source of income lay in his subordinates. Catryne was one of them.

Six years ago, Catryne had been an ordinary woman, working for a midsize corporation as a security officer and bodyguard for its CEO's. Then one night, she had been ordered to escort the president to a business dinner. The 'business dinner' had turned into a clandestine meeting between the man she'd been ordered to escort and the president of a rival corporation. She had been ordered to kill the other man. Horrified, she'd refused. The president of her corporation had gunned down the man himself, and pursued her. She'd foolishly run to the only place she felt safe; her home, where her husband and infant son had been waiting for her. They had gone to bed, making plans to turn the President in the next morning.

She'd never gotten the chance. Late that night two men had broken into her house, injected her with a sedative, and then dragged her outside to her car. She had woken up, fully dressed, in her car, just in time to see her home go up in flames with her family inside. There was nothing she could do but cry with grief as the firemen held her back from throwing herself into the flames.

She had wanted to die, for a long time. Then an enigmatic man calling himself the Master of Assassins had appeared to her, one day at the park, and told her he could help her get revenge on the corporate president who had killed her family. The price was that she had to serve him as an assassin for ten years. She had agreed at the time. She had nothing to live for; her family was gone. She wanted revenge. So she had agreed, and he had her sign a contract, giving him ten years of her life. For a year she had lived with him, learning all forms of self-defense, learning different ways of killing. Revenge, when she finally met the man who had ordered her family killed, had been sweet, but oddly enough it hadn't satisfied her. Seeing him die didn't alleviate the weight of sorrow she carried with her. But a deal was a deal, and she had joined his corps of assassins as his New York operative. He had at least one in almost every major city in the country. 

Except New Orleans. He had struck a deal with the leader of the Assassins' Guild there, a lady named Belladonna. And a month ago, she had come to the Master with a contract. A contract for a man named Remy LeBeau. She wanted him dead, she said. He was her former husband, and he had killed her brother. As the one assigned to New York, Catryne had agreed to take the contract. The guy had killed his brother in law and been exiled. He was no innocent. So she'd added his name and information to her little black book of marks.

But in the month since, while she tracked down and eliminated the killer of Mr. Marsden's daughter, she had been quietly gathering information on the mutant X-Man known as Gambit. And everything she saw on the news and heard from the papers pointed to a different man than the one she had been commanded to take down. Last week she had seen on TV a rabble of the mutant-hating group called the Friends of Humanity carry out an anti-mutant rally in front of the United Nations building during a summit. The rally had gotten ugly when a group of mutant sympathizers had chosen to conduct their own rally across the street and the FOH had taken exception to it. Many innocent bystanders had gotten caught in the crossfire when the X-Men arrived at the scene. The figure in the brown duster had scooped a child in a carriage out of the way of the FOH members' gunshots, and then a moment later had taken the child's mother from harm's way. He then escorted both out of the fray, taking them to a stoplight half a block away before he left them to join the rest of his teammates.

It didn't fit with the picture she had been given about him. And now, having met him personally, she knew something wasn't right. Oh, she hadn't known who he was when she saw him in her apartment; but when he'd said he was a member of the X-Men, she'd thought he was a good way to get close to her mark. Then he had told her what his name was, and the gears had come to a crashing halt.

She walked into the little bookshop, to be greeted by a tall man with silver hair, wearing glasses. "Hello," she said, noting there were other customers in the store. "I'm trying to find a rare book, and I was told you might have it in your back room." It was the phrase they used to indicate they needed to talk to the Master.

He took off his glasses. "Come this way, miss," he said, leading her into the back. A tall red-haired man with a slight stoop went out to the front of the shop, to mind it while the Master spoke with his assassin.

"Bloodcat, what can I do for you?" he said, the kindly demeanor disappearing, his face going cold and hard. Seeing the change made shivers trickle down her spine; he was so good at dissembling, and it chilled her to know that he could kill anyone, anytime, anywhere. Only his eyes betrayed his inner nature; they were cold, flat pools of a brown so deep they were almost black.

"I completed the last assignment, Master," she said. "And the client will pay your fee of ten thousand. I decided to allow him to keep my share of the contract fee; he does, after all, now have two grandchildren to raise in his daughter's absence."

He looked disapproving. "Bloodcat, you disappoint me. I did not expect you to do this, not after the last conversation we had. I believed I made it clear that you were not to reduce the agreed-upon fee, and that you were to take your full share. I received a grateful letter from the Kline family saying that you returned the share you were to have taken after I commanded you not to. Do you require correction?"

"No," Catryne lowered her head to hide the look of fear in her eyes. 'Correction' for something the Master's well-trained assassins did came in the form of corporal punishment. She had only experienced it once herself, and it had left her with nightmares and not a few scars. 

She had been still new to the business, and nervous, because this mark was a mafia don. She had been on the roof outside an old, crumbling theatre, waiting for him, and when he came out she had shot. It hadn't killed him cleanly; she had put the expanding bullet into his lungs, and in the three days it took him to die, he had meanwhile changed his will, and not handed the 'family business' over to the son who had hired the Assassins, but to the other child. The man had been upset with the extra time it took his old man to die, and dropped the fee, paying only half of what he had promised. The Master had punished her for it, restraining her and then whipping her thirty times, ten lashes for each day. "No, Master, I do not."

"Good. Then you will call the client back this evening and inform him that the full payment is to be made. Now, is that all?"

She took a deep breath. He was definitely not going to be happy with this. "I cannot take the next contract, Master," she said quietly, her eyes still glued to the floor.

"Really." He stared at her, narrow-eyed. "And why not, Bloodcat?"

"I…I met the mark, Master," she whispered, her throat closed in fear but still determined to do what she thought was right. "He does not deserve to die."

He grabbed her chin in a hard, bruising grip and forced her to look up. "And when did I begin asking you what you think the mark does or does not deserve?" he snarled. "All I ask is that you follow my instructions and do as I say. You do not think. Do you understand?"

She felt her eyes fill with tears and hated herself for them. "Yes, Master. But Master, I must still request that you assign the mark to someone else…"

He grabbed her arm in a firm grip and she nearly cried out. "Downstairs," he said coldly. Biting her lip, she went to the door that opened onto a flight of stairs that led down to the basement of the building. The Master lived here, in a spacious, opulent apartment in the rear; but their destination was, she knew, the large meeting room, dubbed the Assignment Room by the assassins belonging to the Master.

He indicated a raised platform against the wall in a corner of the room. She crossed to it, trembling, knowing what was coming. He was going to 'correct' her. She turned to him, terror in her eyes. "Please, Master," she whispered, "I can't bear this. Please, It's not necessary…" 

He pointed to the platform inexorably. "Any further delay, and you will incur more punishment," he warned.

She stepped up to the platform and opened the buttons on her blouse with trembling fingers. The cool air of the underground chamber kissed her bare chest for just a moment above her plain white bra, then she slid her shirt off her shoulders, unclasped the front of her bra, and turned around to face the wall after he cuffed her hands in front of her.

She gritted her teeth as she heard him go to the heavy carved armoire across the room and take out his whip. She clenched her fists and lowered her head, gathering her heavy chestnut hair and pulling it over her shoulders as he raised it. As the first lash left a burning trail across her shoulders, she bit back a scream. Her wrists bit into the cuffs as she fought for control.

The Master surveyed the trembling woman before him. The muscles in her back rippled as she clenched her fists, trying not to make a sound. Such spirit, he thought, and struck again. Again she just barely kept a scream from escaping her lips. Irritated, he lashed her again, harder this time, and heard her scream in anguish. Satisfied, he made the last two stripes light. He stepped forward, running his hand over the raised welts. He had deliberately not struck her with full force, not wanting to break skin. These would be almost faded by the next morning, though she would feel the pain for a couple of days.

When he pulled away from her again she blurted out, "Please, Master, please don't! Not again, I can't take it anymore. I'll hit the mark. I promise, just…please don't hurt me again!" Her body was bathed in a cold sweat that glistened on her welted shoulders.

"Turn, and kneel," he said, signaling that her punishment was over. She fell to her knees, gasping for air and sobbing. She knelt at his feet, and raised her cuffed hands to him. He took his time unlocking them as he admired her heaving breasts for a moment. "Have we learned our lesson?" he said in a deceptively mild voice.

"Yes, Master," she whimpered, her forehead brushing the floor at his feet.

"Now, my dear Bloodcat, what brought this on?" he said, walking away from her kneeling figure and sitting down at the table. Catryne knew better than to rise or put on her clothing. He was still upset with her. And she wasn't sure she could move, anyway; her whole body was shaking with pain. She settled for rubbing her raw wrists.

"I met the mark yesterday," she said quietly. "He observed me doing the Marsdens' daughter's score. Then he followed me home. I took several detours, made him chase me around the city, but he took a shortcut and caught me. He did not try to fight; I believe he was just curious. Then, when I believed I had finally shaken him, I went home. But he must have followed me home; he appeared in my kitchen from the fire escape. I surprised him, I think; when he turned around I accidentally cut him with my sword. I didn't know then that he was my mark; he may have mentioned his name to me during our conversation but I didn't catch it. Anyway, he had been drinking, and he passed out while I was bandaging his arm. I put him to bed in my bedroom and went to sleep on my couch. When I woke he had coffee and breakfast waiting for me. We ate, and then he asked me out tonight…just before he told me his name."

The Master sat quietly for a moment, thinking. "Does he know your name?" he said.

"I told him to call me Bloodcat," she said. "He shortened it to Cat."

He stood. "You will accept his offer of a date should he make one again. He does not strike me as the type to give up; you will probably see him again either tonight or tomorrow. You will go out with him. You will get close to him, and when the time is right, you will kill him according to the contract. I want no more of this nonsense. As he has already gravitated to you, you are the one who must finish it. The leader of the Assassins' Guild in New Orleans is a very powerful lady, and she is paying us twice the premium fee. That means, my dear, forty thousand for me, and sixty thousand for you. If you find yourself overwhelmed with pity for this man, remember something; you will lose sixty thousand dollars for a sentimental reason. And you will suffer such pain as you have never felt before from me, if I lose forty thousand dollars."

"Yes, Master," she whispered. He took a look into the monitors keeping an eye on the shop, and observed, "There are no customers presently in the shop. Go now, for in your current condition you would attract unwanted attention from customers if you tried to exit while they were in. Come back when you have eliminated the mark."

She found herself standing out on the sidewalk in front of the bookshop a short time later, putting her helmet on over her head. She made it home by driving slowly, avoiding the worst of the traffic, and when she did get home she collapsed on her couch, exhausted and trembling. She lay there for a long time, then got up, unbuttoned her blouse with shaking fingers and examined the five livid red welts on her back and the abraded skin on her wrists. They hurt like hell. She put anesthetic on her wrists and tried to rub some on the lashes, but it was awkward, and she soon gave up. She left the bathroom and lay down on the still-rumpled sheets, smelling him on her pillow. Tears fell from her eyes, and she hugged the pillow to her as she cried herself to sleep.


	3. The Date

Chapter 3: The Date

It was almost noon when Gambit returned, and a very annoyed Cyclops met him at the back kitchen door when he came in on the way back from stowing his motorcycle in the garage. "Where have you been?" Scott asked with a measure of annoyance.

"Out, mon ami," Gambit said as he brushed past Scott, angling his body so that the team's leader wouldn't see the heavy bandaging on his arm. Scott grabbed his arm to halt his progress, and Gambit sighed inwardly as Scott's eyes picked up the bandage on his arm.

"What have you been doing?" he demanded in annoyance, yanking at the bandage. "Did you get into another bar fight?" He got a look at the gash, and whistled. "What did you do, get into a fight with a lawnmower? Look at your shirt!"

Rogue came in at just that moment, followed by Logan, and her eyes widened as she saw the deep slice. Logan's eyes narrowed after he got a deep sniff, and he grinned wolfishly. Gambit gave him a wink. "Later, Logan," he said. "Gambit wan' go git dis t'ing looked at by Hank, den go an' git a shower an' sleep."

"Did you forget the Danger Room training session we had scheduled this afternoon, Gambit?" Scott said icily. 

Gambit gritted his teeth. He had forgotten. "Um, don' t'ink I could pass because o' an injury?" he said. Scott snorted, and he rolled his eyes. "I didn' t'ink so. Okay, Gambit get dis arm looked at, den he be in de Danger Room for de session."

Rogue was already examining the gash. "Whoever patched this up did a good job o' it, Gambit," she drawled. "You were lucky, sugah. Any deeper, an' it mighta sliced some muscle there." She looked at him. "What happened?"

"I should like to know that, too," Xavier said, coming into the room. "Where have you been, Remy?"

Gambit sat down at the table. Clearly no one was going to leave him alone till they knew what happened. "I was leavin' Crossroads," he named the bar he'd been at when the whole thing began, "An' I stopped on de way out to finish my cigarette. Dere was a man down de alley gettin' t'reatened by somebody dressed in black. I didn' know she was a woman till later. Den de man copped to somet'ing he did dat de woman made him confess to; he killed his wife by cuttin' her t'roat." He let that sink in, then continued, "De woman recorded his confession, den cut his t'roat wit' her sword. Not deep, just enough to scar. Den she handcuff him to a street lamp and leave de cassette wit' him for de police to fin'. When she drive off on a motorcycle, I followed her. She made me chase her all over de damn city; I caught up to her using a shortcut and confronted her. She jus' tol' me to min' my own business an' drove away. I followed her back to her apartment and surprised her comin' out of de shower. She cut me wit' her sword, den she patch me up." 

He grinned ruefully as he said, "Gambit have too much to drink las' night. I pass out on her floor. She got me int' her bed an' slept on her couch. When I wake up dis mornin' she was still asleep. I wasn' goin' to leave her wit'out sayin' goodbye, so I make her breakfast before I leave. I ask her if she wan' to go out tonight, but she say no. She didn' even give me her name; she jus' tol' me her name was Bloodcat. I listen to a conversation she had on de phone wit' somebody named Marsden; she getting paid for dis junk. She getting ten t'ousan' dollars to cut dis guy's t'roat. I t'ink she be a mercenary assassin."

Xavier stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I did hear something on the news about Samantha Marsden's murderer getting caught," he said. "Found this morning by a patrol car outside of Crossroads. People believe Daredevil did it." He shrugged. "I guess they were wrong."

Gambit got up. "I'm goin' to fin' a hot shower an' some asp'rin," he said.

Rogue caught up with him in the corridor. "Ya spent the night at her place?" she said. "What happened?"

Gambit rolled his eyes. "Look, chere, I tol' de trut' in dere," he said. "Not'ing happen between me an' her. An' anyway, you don' wan' me, so why feel jealous if I go fin' anot'er woman?" He stalked off down the hall, leaving Rogue staring at his retreating back with some very mixed feelings.

When he got into his room after the session, a shower and Hank had re-bandaged his arm, Logan was waiting for him. "What was she like, Gumbo?" the other man said.

Gambit sat down on the edge of his bed. "You would not believe dis woman, Logan," he said, his eyes glittering. "She got curves like dis…" his hands formed an hourglass shape in the air, "an' her ches' look like dis…and she got de mos' incredible eyes, like de sky on a gorgeous summer day. When I got in her apartment, an' was in de kitchen, when I look aroun' she was all wet, like I interrupt her in de shower or somethin'. She a beautiful girl. I can' believe she jus' say no to a date wit' me, jus' like dat." He snapped his fingers.

Logan chuckled. "So yer ego hurts 'cause a beautiful woman says no?"

"No," he said, giving Wolverine a nasty look, "I t'ink it be more den dat. I t'ink she about to say yes when she hear my name an' den she say no. I don' know why."

"So yer gonna try again."

Gambit grinned rakishly. "O' course."

"Well, guess yer gonna need this then." Logan tossed Gambit the keys to his pickup. "Just don't bring her back with an empty tank again, huh?"

The thought continued to haunt him as he fell asleep, then later when he woke. Scott gave him a funny look when he came down too late to join everyone for dinner, but Gambit ignored it and grabbed a cup of coffee, then headed upstairs to dress. He wasn't sure how she would receive him if he showed up at her door and asked her to go out to dinner with him, so he figured if she shot him down again he could always go hit the pool hall. He dressed deliberately casually, not as scruffily as he usually did, but in a decent pair of khakis and a dark green button down shirt. He palmed the keys to the pickup and left the mansion by the back door.

He walked into the garage, and flicked on the light. "Don't forget we have a practice session tomorrow too, Gambit," Scott said.

Gambit rolled his eyes. "Oui, homme," he said. "Not as if I'm goin' to be spendin' de whole night dere again."

Scott spoke. "You never know," he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Gambit's jaw dropped, and he watched in silence as Scott left the garage.

He stopped at the grocery store and picked up a dozen roses for her. He parked the pickup in the parking garage, took a deep breath, and went up to her apartment. He knocked twice, and waited.

When there was no answer, he knocked again. Again no answer. Wondering if she had gone out, he retraced his steps to the parking garage. Her motorcycle was still there. He went back up, knocked again.

Catryne rolled sluggishly out of bed, groaning as the pain in her back hit her. She leaned against the dresser for a moment, rubbed her eyes, then put on and buttoned her short-sleeved blouse and went to answer the door. "Who is it?" she called as she opened the door, and there stood the last person she wanted to see right now; Remy Le Beau. He broke into a wide grin and held out a lovely bouquet of flowers.

"Oh!" She said, taken aback by the gift. She wasn't expecting it. The scent of roses wafted up to her, and she smiled as she took them. "Thank you, they're lovely," she said. "Come in, let me put these in water," she said.

Gambit walked in and shut the door, looking closely at her as he tried to pin down what was wrong. After a moment, he saw that her clothes were wrinkled, as if she'd slept in them, and her face was flushed. He sat at the kitchen table as she clipped stems and arranged the roses in a lovely crystal vase. He followed her graceful hands as they tucked a rose into the vase when he saw something, and reached out to touch her wrist. "P'tite, what happened?"

She froze, and quickly tried to hide her other hand under the table, but he moved around the table to catch it. The same marks were around that wrist, too. He looked at her. He had seen marks like that often enough to recognize them for what they were; abrasions from handcuffs locked too tight. Two raw red lines wrapped around her slim wrists, and he stared at them in anger and puzzlement. "P'tite, who did dis to you?"

She wrenched her wrists out of his grip and got up, gathering the cellophane and dumping it into the trashcan, along with the stem clippings. "Nothing, Remy. It's not your concern. Don't worry about it."

"P'tite, if someone be hurtin' you, tell me an' I'll go straighten 'im out," he said.

She placed a hand on his chest, and now he could see the marks plainly around her wrists. "Remy, please," she said, her voice breaking on his name. "I don't want to talk about it." She set the vase in the middle of her kitchen table, admired them for a moment, and then turned to him, smiling. "Now, am I correct in thinking that you were going to ask me out to dinner?"

"Yep," he said, changing the subject for now but determined that he'd find out sooner or later what those marks meant.

She grinned, and said cheerfully, "All right, I'll come. Give me a chance to slip into something decent." She slipped into her bedroom and closed the door, taking off the clothes she'd slept in and opening her closet door. "Casual, Remy?"

"Where you want to go t'night, chere?" he said. "Anywhere you like."

Cat blinked. He was asking her? She hadn't been out to eat in a very long time. She had no idea what restaurants were good around here.

"I honestly don't know," she said, poking her head out the room door. "I haven't eaten out in a long time. What's good around here?"

Remy thought. "Well, dere's a restaurant called Marcello's were dey make a pretty mean Italian pasta," he said. "An dere's a good Chinese place called Szechuan Palace where dey have sushi an' stuff."

"Anything Cajun?" she asked, her head poking out the door again, eyes twinkling.

"Chere, if it be Cajun ya want, I can cook it myself," he said. "Not'in in de city compare to what Remy can make." He said it with pride, and he heard that musical laughter again. "Let's got to Marcello's, then," she said. The bedroom door opened, and she came out in a simple but stunning turquoise dress that dipped low between her perfect breasts and came up over her shoulders in thin little spaghetti straps. A matching turquoise sweater covered her welted back and raw wrists. He tried to keep his jaw from dropping, and just barely succeeded. "_Vous etes si beau_, chere," he said. "You look beautiful." 

She grinned. "Merci, Monsieur LeBeau. You don't look too bad yourself. Will this be okay? You didn't bring your bike, did you?" 

"Non, p'tite. Remy borrow a friend's pickup truck."

She smiled. "I'll just be a moment more, then." And she disappeared in the bathroom.

She surveyed her back in the mirror. The welts were fading, but she had decided to wear the sweater anyway to hide the marks, though the evening was too warm for it. She applied her makeup with quick, deft touches, then gave a light dab of perfume under each ear. Seconds later, she exited the bathroom and saw him grin. "Ready, chere?" 

She grinned as she took the proffered arm. Just for tonight, she was going to put all thoughts of her work and the forthcoming unpleasantness out of her mind and just enjoy herself. "Ready, Monsieur LeBeau." She giggled as she saw his expression. "I remember my French," she said as she swept past him.

She turned all heads in the restaurant as she walked in. They waited in the lobby for a hostess to seat them for a few minutes, then Remy decided they should sit in the piano bar. He wasn't a real fan of piano, but at least they wouldn't have to wait. And it was amateur night. Hopefully someone would be there who could play well.

They ordered, and she sat back, listening to the current player mangle a Chopin nocturne so badly she wondered if he was even reading the music. The waitress arrived with their champagne, and they sat there drinking and talking. 

"So, p'tite," Gambit said finally, having gone and told her all about himself and the X-Men, "tell me 'bout you. Where you been all o' my life?"

She giggled. "I was living in California until about a year and a half ago," she said. "I sort of miss it. Sun, sand, open water…I miss my tan," she said mournfully, looking at her pale hand resting on the table. Gambit smiled. 

"You look fine, p'tite," he said. "Do you have anyone else in your life right now?"

She looked down at the table. "No. My husband died about six years ago, with my baby son. Our house caught fire. I was the only one the firemen could rescue. I haven't really felt attracted to anyone since then. You're the only one I've felt comfortable enough with to go out to dinner with. I don't go out alone much."

Gambit placed a hand over hers. "I'm real sorry, chere," he said, and she looked into his eyes and could tell he meant it. "If dere anyt'ing Remy can do, jus' tell me. Whoever done dat--" he pushed her sleeve up just enough to see the raw welts on her wrist, "gon' haveta deal wit' me when I fin' out who did it. Will you tell me, p'tite?"

She got up, avoiding his eyes, and walked across the floor to the piano, sitting down. For a moment she just let her hands rest on the keys, soundlessly, and closed her eyes, picturing the music in her mind. Then she let her fingers whisper up and down the ivory keys, sending out a trill of music that played arpeggios on his spine. She played a few bars, then opened her mouth and began to sing. Her voice was rich, husky, and danced on the still air as the other patrons stopped what they were doing to listen to her sing and play. Wrapped in the spell of the music, it was a moment before he actually heard the words.

"_While the words of ancient poets_

Fall as dust upon my shoes

Grief has robbed me of my vision

Turned my heart from higher truths

So take my hand and lift me higher

Be my love and my desire

Hold me safe from all about

Take my heart to higher ground."

Her eyes caught his as she began another verse.

__

"I have walked too long in darkness

I have walked too long alone

Blindly clutching fists of diamonds

That I found were only stones.

I would trade the wealth of ages

For a warmer hand to hold

The path of light is narrow

But it leads to streets of gold.

So take my hand, lift me higher

Be my love and my desire.

Hold me safe from all about,

Take my heart to higher ground."

The last note hung in the air, dying out slowly. She raised her head, and saw in the corner a man dressed in a suit. Tall, silver-haired…the Master. Her heart skipped a beat. What was he doing here? She got up quickly from the piano, returning to her seat beside Remy, trying not too look flushed.


	4. Love in the Night

Chapter 4: Love in the Night

Gambit blinked as she sat beside him, coming slowly down from the spell she had woven. She looked flushed, and nervous. He took her hand in his. "P'tite, that was beautiful," he said. "Remy never hear anybody play like dat here. What was it?"

She blushed. "Thank you. It was called 'Higher Ground', Remy. Barbra Streisand sang it, I believe," she said.

Their order came, and he watched as she draped the napkin over her lap and picked up her fork. She had ordered a salmon fillet, sautéed in a delicate lemon butter sauce, with angel-hair pasta on the side in a creamy sauce. It looked delicious. He picked up his own fork and took a bite of his steak. It was so tender he barely needed to use his knife. He savored the taste, then opened his eyes to see her eyeing his plate curiously. "Wan' a taste, p'tite?" he said, offering her a small piece on his fork.

Cat blinked. She shouldn't, she really shouldn't, the Master was watching in the corner and she could feel him staring at her, his glare digging a hole between her shoulder blades. But his expression was so hopeful she grinned, and forgot about the watcher in the corner. She opened her mouth, and he slipped the morsel in, watching almost mesmerized as her full, sensuous lips closed on the fork and the piece. He wanted to kiss those lips, oh, how he wanted to…

"Well?" He snapped out of his reverie, to see her offering him a bite of her salmon. "Huh, p'tite?"

She grinned. "I asked if you wanted to try mine," she said, waving the tiny piece of fish in front of him. He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, I was t'inking o' somet'in' else," he said. He opened his mouth and she slipped her fork in, then watched, her eyes glazing slightly as he chewed the bite, his lips moving with his jaw. She had a wild urge to kiss those lips, that strong jaw, the chin with its sexy five o'clock stubble just beginning…

She dropped her eyes, smiling softly to herself at her fantasies, completely forgetting the man sitting in the corner.

George Randall, the Master of Assassins, sat back in his chair, drumming his fingers agitatedly on the table before him. He'd never seen Bloodcat…his little cat, he insisted to himself …looking so beautiful. Where had she gotten that turquoise dress? It was making him sick, the way they had fed each other, so carefully, so gently. Seeing her face when she looked at Remy LeBeau made him angry. She was his; he owned her. She was forgetting herself.

He wasn't jealous…okay, yes he was, quite a bit. He told himself a long time ago that although he wanted the little cat, she was too valuable as an assassin to get involved with her. Those thoughts fled from his mind now, and his hands crushed the delicate linen napkin in his lap as he dreamed of having her in his bed. Stretched out, yes, that was it. Stretched out between his bedposts and writhing under the kiss of his mouth and his lash, crying with pain and pleasure and need as he flogged her white body. Then he would fall on her and take her hard, dominating her, feel her body rise under him, opening her long legs for him…

His pants were too tight. Why had he worn this suit? It was too small for him. He watched, getting colder and colder with fury, as they sat there, laughing, giggling, and talking…She had seen him as she got up from the piano, he knew she had, and yet here she was, the little strumpet, flaunting her body for this man who didn't deserve her. He would show her who she belonged to when he got his hands on her next. 

He had never had a female assassin in his employ before. All had been men. He had a small iron tucked away in his armoire, a branding iron with a stylized R on it. He had branded all of his other assassins with it, a permanent reminder for all of them that he owned them. He had held off branding the little cat, not wanting to spoil the whiteness of her skin with the brand. But perhaps it would serve to remind her who owned her, her body and services, for he had no intention of releasing her after her contract was up. He wanted her for the rest of her life, or at least until he tired of her.

His eyes focused again on the couple in front of him. They were on the desert course now, and doing the same stupid thing with their ice cream that he had seen them doing with the dinner. Oh, yes, a brand would be perfect. The little slut was leaning forward now, accepting the spoonful of strawberry ice cream, and he saw the deep, shadowed valley between her breasts. Yes, there. It would be perfect. His R branded on the curve of those luscious breasts, where her lover would see it, and ask questions…questions she couldn't answer without driving him away.

Randall opened his suitcase and drew out a sheet of paper. He penned a note for her, a few brief sentences, and tucked it in an envelope, sealed it, and put it in his pocket. He waved to the waitress to bring his check, and as he waited, he fueled his rage with the scene in front of him.

Remy licked a dab of ice cream off her nose, and listened to her giggle. He put the spoon down in the empty dish, wiped his lips with the napkin, and looked her in the eye. "P'tite, do you know de song 'All I Ask Of You'?"

"Yes," she said. He got up, taking her hand, drawing her up to the piano platform, and told her, "Play it for me." She struck the opening chords, and he raised his voice and sang. He didn't have the best voice in the world, but he'd never had any of his dates complain when he romanced them with song. 

__

"No more talk of darkness, 

Forget these wide-eyed fears, I'm here

Nothing can harm you

My words will warm and calm you.

Let me be your freedom; 

Let daylight dry your tears, I'm here

With you, beside you, 

To guard you and to guide you…"

Her voice twined around the notes, rising clear and delicate above his rough baritone.

__

"Then say you love me every winter morning.

Turn my head with talk of summertime!

Say you need me with you, now and always,

Promise me that all you say is true;

That's all I ask of you."

Cat closed her eyes and gave herself over to the song and the man beside her, opening her throat and singing as she had not done in a very long time. It had been six years since she'd really sung, and it had been for her baby son that last fateful night as she and her husband prepared to go to bed. She had been so happy, sure her problems were over, and yet they were just beginning. Her melancholy added an extra vibrancy to the song, and the other patrons of the restaurant were spellbound. Even the wait staff stopped, entranced. 

All except the man sitting in the corner. He slapped the money down to cover the bill, and got up, striding to the door as fast as he could without running. He jumped into his Mercedes and peeled out of the parking lot.

Inside, as they finished the song, the restaurant manager bustled up to them. "That was wonderful," he said to the smiling couple getting ready to descend from the platform. "We need some good players in here, my dear," he said to Cat warmly. "Would you consider coming here as a regular? We would love to have you too, of course," he said hastily to Remy, but his words were directed to the blushing young woman in front of him.

"I'll consider it," Cat said to him honestly, thinking how wonderful it would be to be able to actually earn her money rather than kill for it. Amid the man's pleas she gathered her purse and Gambit paid the bill, then they left.

"Did you see that restaurant manager's face?" she giggled as they drove back to her apartment through the almost non-existent late night traffic. "I thought he was going to fall over and kiss my shoes, he was begging so hard."

Gambit laughed as they parked in the garage and he got out. "You were a hit," he said. Cat grabbed her purse and stepped out. As her foot hit the pavement, however, her shoe slipped and she lurched sideways with a cry. He ran a hand across her back to catch her, and she yelped in pain. "P'tite, what wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, grabbing her ankle to find an excuse for the look of pain on her face. He had brushed the fabric of her sweater across the still-tender welts and caused her to cry in pain.

Remy scooped her up, one arm under her knees, one across her back, and now she was in agony, with all the weight of her body crushing her sweater between her welts and his arm. Tears sprang to her eyes, and Remy, seeing it, figured he should get her in the apartment right away.

He put her down in her kitchen chair and went to her fridge, taking out the tray of ice and dumping a handful of them into a plastic bag. He wrapped the bag in a towel and placed it on her ankle. "Hol' dat dere, chere," he said. He scooped her up and took her into her darkened bedroom, but before he could turn on the light, she had grabbed his shirt and pulled him down beside her. He felt for her sweater in the darkness, pushing it off her shoulders, then the dress zipper followed. She drew in a sharp breath of pain as his hand passed over her throbbing back, but the pain was quickly lost in the desire flooding her senses. She touched him hesitantly, her breath coming harder in the darkness, wondering what on earth she was doing, but the drinks and her desire got the better of her, and she gave in, her hands finding Remy's belt and zipper in the darkness.

Much later, they both lay back on the bed, exhausted and content. Cat was drowsing a bit when he pushed himself up on his elbow and reached across her to turn on the light. Bright, garish light bathed them both, and Remy drew in a breath at what he saw. Cat cringed inwardly, knowing she couldn't find any excuses now.

He stared at her back, which until now had been hidden from him, and he bit his lip. Five fresh red lines made a stark contrast to the fine, white scars that crossed her back from her shoulder blades to her hips, disappearing under the blankets. He had a feeling that if he looked, those white lines would scar her buttocks too. "P'tite," he whispered, unable to fathom how they'd gotten there. "Mon Dieu, what de hell happen'?" He sat up, his fingers tracing the white lines as he counted them. Thirty. Thirty slashes on her back, old, healed, but the pain she must have suffered until they did…

"Chere…" He shook his head. He couldn't find the words to say what he wanted to, and instead he sat up and touched her shoulder. "What happened?" he asked her, and her heart nearly broke. She pulled away from him and left him sitting there on her bed, running into her bathroom and slamming the door.

Remy got up and went to that door. She hadn't locked it, and he pushed it open. She crouched in the corner, her arm resting on the ledge of the bathtub, her face buried in that arm, crying stormily. He crossed the cold tile, sat down behind her. For long moments he just sat there, feeling the cold of the floor leech the heat out of his backside as he tried to comfort the sobbing young woman in his arms. After a bit he began to distinguish words.

"I can't…I really can't…Oh, God, Remy…I'm sorry…please…" She kept repeating it over and over, brokenly, and he realized he was not going to get a straight answer from her about the cause of those fresh wounds, or the old white lines he'd seen. At least, not now. He decided not to press her about it, and he sat on the edge of the bathtub, gathering her in his arms, making soft shushing sounds as he calmed her. When she stopped sniffling he said, "I won't ask, chere. You tell Remy what happen when you feel comfortable wit' it. Meanwhile, do you have anyt'in' I can put on dat?"

"In the medicine cabinet behind the mirror," she sniffled, getting up. He took a quick look as she stood. Yep, the scars went down over her buttocks too. When she told him who was responsible for this he was going to hunt the bastard down and make him pay for the pain she'd suffered.

He took the salve from the cabinet and went to the bedroom, where she was sitting on the edge of the bed. He said gently, "Lie down, chere." She lay on her stomach on the bed, and he straddled her from behind, her long legs between his knees. He dabbed the strong-smelling stuff on her back, then began to gently work it into the welts. She gasped several times as he struck a particularly sore spot, but never cried out.

He finished, got off her, and sat in front of her as she looked down, her fingers fiddling nervously with a stray thread on her sheet. "One question, chere," he said finally, cupping her chin in his hand and gently drawing her face up to his. "Dis bastard dat did dis to you; he don' hurt you…any ot'er way, does he?" She looked confused.

He let out his breath all at once, in exasperation. "Rape, chere. Please tell Remy he don' rape you."

"No," she said quietly. "No, he doesn't. He's never touched me. Not like that."

He sighed. "Dat a good t'ing, or I wouldn' let you go till you tell me where to fin' him."

She leaned forward, fear in her blue eyes, and placed a hand on his arm. "Remy, promise me you won't go looking for him. He's dangerous. If he sees you, you're dead." He was about to say something when he took a closer look at the young woman in front of him. She was afraid. For him. After what she'd apparently suffered at the man's hands, she wasn't afraid for herself, but for him. He bit back what he was going to say and lay back into the pillows. She curled up next to him for a moment, and felt something cold hit her foot. The bag of ice lay forgotten on the end of the bed, and there was a big cold spot in the middle of her bed. She chuckled weakly and started to get up to take the ice back to the kitchen.

"Non. Stay dere, p'tite. I get rid of it." He took the ice and the towel to the kitchen. 

He saw a white envelope lying on the floor by the front door, and picked it up. In a harsh, undeniably masculine scrawl, the name 'Catryne' was printed on it. He wanted to open it more than anything else in his life, but he didn't. "P'tite," he said instead, walking into the bedroom. "Dis be in the door mail slot for you." he stood watching her as she opened it.

__

Bloodcat, said the note. _I saw you and your lover in the restaurant. You saw me too. Don't deny it. I want you in the Assignment Room at nine o'clock tomorrow evening. Wear the same dress you wore tonight._

It wasn't signed. It didn't have to be. She knew who had sent it.

The Master sat in his room below the bookshop, planning. 

He would take her to that restaurant. She would sing for him the way she had sung for the mark. Then, when they got back here, he would make her sing another song; one of pain, to the music of his whip. Then he would brand her with his mark, break her, and make her feel how much power he had over her.

His lips curved in a cold, cruel smile. 


	5. Jealousy

Chapter 5: Jealousy

Scott was a little surprised when Remy came down for breakfast the next morning. "I thought you would have stayed at your girlfriend's last night," he commented.

"De p'tite ain't my girlfriend," Remy said grimly. "She keepin' secrets from me, an' Remy don' like dat."

"Ya two must be a match made in heaven," Rogue said from the kitchen where she was pouring a cup of coffee. "She keepin' secrets, an God knows you got 'em too, sugah."

Gambit shot her a dirty look, and sat down. He didn't say anything else until after the breakfast, when he checked the chore schedule Scott and Jean had come up with so they didn't have to do all the dishes all the time, and he found himself, Logan, and Storm doing dishes in the kitchen.

"You are not in the best of moods, Remy," Storm pointed out to him. "Perhaps if you were to tell us what is wrong we could help you find a solution."

"Not'in' goin' to help me, 'Ro," he said. "De p'tite won' tell me what happen to her." He slipped a plate into the dishrack with a thump that nearly broke it. 

"Careful, Cajun," Logan said. "If we break another dish Jean'll have our hides fer it."

"What happened last night, Remy?" Storm asked. "If I recall correctly you came home at one this morning and slammed every door between your room and the front door."

Gambit told them about the wounds on Cat's wrists, her avoidance of the topic, and their dinner. His eyes softened a bit when he told them about the restaurant, her singing, and their duet. Then he told them about his discovery when they got back to her apartment. By the time he finished Logan looked grim and Ororo was frowning.

"The poor child," she said. "She wouldn't tell you what happened? Remy, I think you should corner her about it. If the previous scarring is as bad as you say, she may need to be protected from whoever or whatever did it."

Logan said, "I agree with 'Ro. You gotta get her ta tell ya what happened before something really bad happens that she can't handle. She sounds like she knows who it is that did that ta her, an' if she does whoever it is could easily do it ta her again."

Remy sighed. "I know. I tried to promise her dat I wouldn' press, but I been t'inkin dat I'm gonna haveta."

He thought about it and thought about it. He wanted to give her her privacy, let her keep her secrets, but was the price of her pain really worth it? He finally gave up and went to consult Xavier about it.

Xavier was in his office when he heard the tap at the door and heard his name called. "Charles?"

"Come on in, Remy," he said, trying not to look eager. He'd woken up to the sound of slamming doors that morning and a stream of invectives in French as Gambit stomped off to his room, and had wondered what had happened. It wasn't every woman he went out with that could cause him to lose his temper like that. "Sit down, please. Tell me what happened."

He listened as Gambit spoke, then sat for a long time, thinking. What an enigmatic young woman she was; there had to be more to the story than what Remy had so far seen. How could such a lovely young girl be such an accomplished assassin, and why? What had happened to her that she would turn to a life of killing? And who was the mysterious person who had hurt her, and why would she keep it a secret?

"Remy," he asked soberly, "did you get any indication at all that the wounds may have been self-inflicted, or inflicted with her cooperation?"

Gambit thought for a moment, and shook his head vehemently. "Non, Charles. She know who it is dat done it to her, but she don' like it. And she's ashamed o' it, or o' herself, an' she don' wan' nobody to know." He shook his head again. "She talk in her sleep, Charles. She say she 'don' wan' do dis no more, she wan' out,' but when I ask, she wouldn' tell me what she meant. I t'ink she in trouble, Charles, but she wan' handle it herself, an' I don' t'ink she can."

"She may need help," Xavier said. "Would you bring her here sometime soon, Remy? Normally I wouldn't advocate entering someone's mind without permission, but I think in this case I would be justified in doing so."

Gambit let out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. He had hoped Xavier would have a solution to his dilemma, and as usual, the X-Men's founder had come up with something. Now he wouldn't have to ask her, and break his promise. "I can do dat," he nodded. 

He left Xavier's office with a lighter heart, and went to the kitchen. He picked up the phone and dialed her number.

Cat picked up the phone when it rang, suppressing a yawn. "Hello?" she said.

Remy's voice came over the receiver. "Good morning, p'tite." She sat down in one of her kitchen chairs and smiled. 

"Good morning to you, too," she chuckled. "I had a lovely time last night, Remy, thank you."

She could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "So did I, chere."

She giggled wickedly. "You're very good in bed."

He spluttered for a moment, and she giggled harder. "T'ank you, p'tite."

She grew serious. "I'm sorry for rushing you out like that. The note was from…an old…friend..(oh, she hated referring to the Master as a friend!) and I kinda wanted some privacy to read it. Thank you for not being mad at me."

He said, "I ain' gon' lie to you, chere, it hurt. But you got your secrets, an' I'm willin' to let you tell me in your own time."

"Thank you, Remy," she was touched.

"I called to ask if you wanted to come to dinner wit' me tonight," he said. Her eyes widened. "Again? We had dinner last night!"

"Non, chere, non. Dis time Remy wan' show you where he live. Maybe you wan' meet my frien's, no? Maybe have dinner wit' us? Gambit cooking tonight."

He sounded so hopeful; she wanted so terribly to say yes, but the Master had said he wanted to see her that evening. "Uh, could I take a raincheck, Remy? I got some stuff to do tonight."

His voice chilled. "Your 'business,' p'tite?"

She hated that tone. "Sort of."

"Well have fun," he said bitterly, and oh, how she wanted to be able to say yes, to bring that roguish smile back to his face and voice, but she couldn't.

"It's not fun, Remy, I don't enjoy killing," she said desperately. "You don't understand."

"Den make Remy understan', p'tite," he said pleadingly. "Tell me what it is dat I don' understan'."

"I can't," she said, but she wanted to. "I promised, Remy, I can't break my promise…"

"A promise you make to somebody who hurt you like dat was made to be broken, p'tite," he said. "You don't deserve to be hurt like dat."

Cat felt her eyes fill with tears, and she sniffed.

"Don' cry, p'tite," Remy said gently, distressed. "I'm sorry I bring it up. Maybe you come wit' me tomorrow night, den?"

She wiped her eyes. "Okay," she said.

When he hung up the phone Cat sat for a long time. Maybe she should tell him who she was and what she was messed up in. Maybe he could help her get out. 

She was tired of it all. Tired of the killing, the meetings, and the Master. Grief had clouded her mind when she had first joined, but that had worn off by now. And now she had met him, and gotten a taste of what real life was like, and suddenly freedom was so tempting.

But how would he react when he found out about all the things she'd done? Would he forgive her? Would he help her? Or would he be so disgusted with the things she'd done that he would hate her? She didn't know how he'd feel; and she wasn't sure she really wanted to find out. 

She put on the turquoise dress again that night with very different feelings than she'd had when she'd put on the dress the previous night. Trepidation, anxiety, a feeling like someone were holding a cartoonish anvil over her head and waiting to drop it when she least expected it. As she picked up her purse, her eyes fell on the flowers Remy had given her the night before. They bloomed cheerfully on her kitchen table. She looked at them, and made a decision. She would tell him. She couldn't keep this up.

The Master was waiting for her in the assignment room, wearing a suit. She nearly flinched as he grabbed her arm and hustled her back out to the lot, where his Mercedes was parked, and told her brusquely to get in. She did, and stayed silent as he drove her out to the same restaurant she had been to with Remy.

She suddenly understood. He was going to bring her back there, the night after, wearing the same dress, intending to humiliate her by having the restaurant staff think she was a whore. She wanted so much to get out of the car, and in fact made a move toward the door when they stopped for a red light.

"Do that and you'll regret it," he snarled at her. She sat back in her seat, face flaming and anger starting to roil inside her.

He saw her anger, and it fanned the flames of his own rage. She belonged to him. She had no right to be angry with him for anything. After all, she was the one who had done this. She had brought this down on herself by flirting with one of her marks. Face tight with anger, he snapped at her, "Get out," after he parked.

When they went in he took her to the piano bar. The hostess stepped up with a puzzled but friendly smile, and saw Cat's white, drawn face. "Can I take your order?" she asked, keeping her face carefully pleasant. Something wasn't right between these two; she looked far more comfortable with the handsome man she had been in here yesterday with.

The Master ordered Cat the same thing she had eaten the previous night, and ordered himself the same thing Remy had, and ordered the same champagne she'd drank. When the waitress went away to get thei food, he grabbed her arm and indicated the piano. "Go play," he ordered her. "The same song you played for him."

She went up to the piano platform, thoroughly angry now. Instead of playing the song she had played the night before, she impulsively began to play something different; Pachelbel's Kanon in D. It wasn't one of her favorites, but she played it with angry relish, defying the man sitting stunned in his seat at the table. She finished and returned to her seat as the waitress came up to their table.

When she had deposited the plates and gone, the Master leaned in to her. "You deliberately defied me," he snarled in anger. "How dare you? You belong to me. I own you!"

She dropped her fork on her plate. "You don't 'own' me," she snapped. "I made a mistake six years ago when I chose to sign your contract. I regret that mistake. Tear up the contract, George Randall, because I'm not killing for you anymore." She got up, picked up her purse and walked out, leaving her untouched dinner behind. 

It was raining outside, but she set out across the parking lot determinedly to walk home. She wasn't going to let him take her home. She wasn't getting back into that car with him.

He exploded out the door of the restaurant, and caught her arm. As she turned around, he backhanded her across her cheek, knocking her to the pavement. She crumpled, her head spinning dizzily, and he took advantage of the momentary disadvantage to haul her up, soaked dress and all, and drag her toward his car. She fought back, using every trick she'' ever learned, but he knew all of them, having taught her everything she knew, and blocked it all easily. She couldn't break his vise-like grip on her arm.

He got to his car, dragged her around to the passenger side, and as he got the door open he slammed her face against the side of the car. She screamed and blacked out.

She stirred, moaned. Her head ached unmercifully. She groaned in pain, and tried to rub her head. Her hands wouldn't move. She opened her eyes…well, one of them anyway; the other one was swollen nearly shut. She groaned as she remembered what had happened. There had been a fight in the parking lot, and he had dragged her to his car. Now where was she?

She turned her head. Her arms were pulled up and away from her body, and she caught the gleam of a metal handcuff on her wrist. The other side was wrapped around the Master's bedpost. She checked the other wrist. The same there, too. She could feel fetters around her ankles.

"Well now, I guess we've woken up," said his voice, and she turned to look at him, standing by the bed. He had shed the suit in favor of a pair of black jeans, and had stripped his upper body. She sucked in a breath as she saw the long black whip he held.

"No," she whispered, her throat closing in fear. She licked her dry lips as he circled her, lying there on the bed, tied and helpless. "Please…"

He laughed cruelly. "You should have thought of that before you defied me. I told you to get close to the mark, not roll him in your bed! And the way you behaved in the restaurant…disgraceful! I thought I taught you better than that. I own you, girl, you can't get away from me. I'm not letting you out of your contract. And you're going to learn how angry I am with you!" He grabbed a knife off the table, and she screamed, thinking he was going to kill her. But he just slit her dress open, from throat to knee, and laid her body bare. 

Then he raised the whip, and she squeezed her eyes shut as the cruel lash descended. Again and again, over and over, with enough force to tear into her skin and draw blood. Then he untied her hands as she sobbed helplessly, and turned her over on the bloody bed, and lashed at her back.

She was nearly senseless with pain when he finally put the whip down and wiped his sweating brow. He took his branding iron from the closet and thrust it into the heart of a small coal brazier, and came to her. She whimpered as he untied her limbs and flipped her over. "Please, Master," she begged. "Don't hurt me anymore…please…"

"Are you mine?" he hissed, unbuckling his belt and sliding it out of his pants.

"I'm yours," she whimpered, "You own me, I'll do anything you want me to do, just please don't hurt me…"

"Anything?" he said, leaning in, watching her heaving breasts as she struggled to control her agonized sobs.

"Anything," she whispered, closing her eyes.

He lowered himself onto her, and she closed her mind and opened her legs.

A short time later, she sat on the floor at the foot of his bed, watching as he smoked his cigarette and poked at the flames in the brazier. He took out the iron, and she gasped in fear. It was glowing white hot.

He pushed it back into the flames, and stalked over to her, catching her wrists and cuffing them back to the bedpost above her head. He studied her for a second, then took the iron out of the flames. "Now you have to hold still," he said as casually as if this were something he did every day. "I don't want to spoil the brand. You've seen me do it to the guys, right, little cat?"

She nodded, her moth gone dry with terror.

"Excellent. I'm glad you remember," he smirked.

How could she not? Whenever a new assassin was added to the Master's collection, he was required to take the oath and to hold still for the branding. Most of them didn't; it was okay until the brand touched the man's flesh, usually the right shoulder blade. Then he would scream in pain and try to move away, and at that point someone would have to hold him.

But he wasn't going to put that thing on her back, she knew. When he had whipped her he hadn't spared her back. Her pain-fogged mind took a moment to realize the only part of her skin he hadn't marked with the whip was her left breast. She whimpered, struggled. "No! no, please, don't, not there!"

He ignored her frantic cries and moved the brand closer to her skin, and then pressed the iron to her chest. She screamed in agony, writhing frantically in the handcuffs. He held it to her chest for a minute more (though it felt like an eternity to her,) then took it away. Smiling maliciously, he blew on it gently. 

She went wild, screaming in animal pain and agony as the air blew over the hypersensitive exposed nerves. It was too much, and she passed out.

She was only half-conscious when he half carried, half-dragged her out of the basement and dumped her into the front seat of his car. He drove back to her apartment complex in the early light of dawn, and when he got there, he opened the passenger door an pushed her out, letting her splash into a filthy puddle just under the fire escape. "Get it through your head," he hissed just before he left her," You're not getting away from me."

She lay there on the pavement for a long time, weeping in anguish as the sun slowly rose over the city. Finally she summoned up all her courage, pulled her torn dress up around her body, and made her way painfully up the escape to her window. She had just enough energy left to crawl in and close the window, and, safe in her apartment, she crumpled to the floor.


	6. Hurt Feelings

Chapter 6: Hurt Feelings

Remy stuck his head into Rogue's room as she and Storm were getting ready to go out. "Min' if Remy go wit' you to de mall?" he said, trying to look innocent.

Rogue looked at him curiously." What yah wanna go wi' us for, sugah?"

He hesitated, unsure if he really wanted to tell Rogue what he had planned, but decided what the hell. "Remy wan' buy de p'tite a gif'."

"Who, your li'l assassin friend?" Rogue cracked.

He gave her a dirty look. "Yes," he said.

Rogue stepped up to him. In the few days since he'd met the woman, he'd been talking about her almost incessantly. She was now sick and tired of hearing about the woman. Last night, lying awake in her bed, she'd admitted to herself that yes, she was jealous, and yet she didn't think she had a right to be. "Grow up, Remy," she snapped at him, poking her gloved finger into his chest. "Ya bin tawkin' about that girl all week like she's the greatest thing you evah seen. I got news for yah; I don't wanna hear about her no more!" She turned on her hell, brushed rudely past him, and fled down the hall.

Remy looked after her, watching as she disappeared down the stairs. "What wrong wit' her?" he asked Storm, puzzled.

Storm, who had been watching silently, struggled to find words. If this were anyone else, she'd be laughing, but this was two of her closest friends, and she tried to be diplomatic. "Remy, she's a little tired of hearing about Catryne," she said seriously, turning to look at him. "It's only been two weeks since you and she broke up…again," she said, looking annoyed. "Rogue doesn't get over things like this as easily as you seem to do."

"Dat it?" he looked surprised.

"Well, the fact that you never officially said it was 'over' might have something to do with it too," she said.

Remy turned and sprinted down the hall, looking for Rogue. Down one flight of steps; no Rogue. To the first floor, then; still no Rogue. He ran into Logan walking out of the kitchen holding a sandwich. "Logan! Did Rogue come dis way?" he asked.

Logan shook his head. "No, but I been lookin' fer ya," he said. "Come on. It'll only be a minute." He stepped back into the kitchen, and Remy followed him.

Inside, Jean and Scott sat at the table with their sandwiches. He looked at Logan. "You got Jean into dis too?"

Jean telekinetically pulled out a chair. "Gambit, sit down," she suggested.

He sat down and crossed his arms, waiting for them to say something.

Jean looked uncertainly at Scott. He looked back at her, his expression unreadable behind his ruby quartz glasses. She shrugged and started. "Remy, we've been hearing you talk about Cat all week," she said. "And I don't think you've stopped to think what it's doing to Rogue."

"Doin' to her?" he asked, puzzled.

Jean cleared her throat delicately. "Well, the two of you never really called it quits," she said. "We all knew you came back from dinner a few weeks ago mad at each other, but you never said it was 'over' before you went and found Cat. You really need to tie up that loose end before you move on."

Remy blinked. "But we're not 'over'," he said in astonishment. "I jus' flirtin' wit' Cat. Rogue de only one for me, you all know dat."

Logan growled. Scott crossed his arms.

Jean voiced what the two men were thinking. "Then I don't think that's exactly fair to Catryne. She might not be a mutant, Remy, but she's still human. She's got feelings that can be hurt if she finds out she was just a 'distraction' for you."

He sat there for a moment, digesting that, then nodded. "I'm goin' to go fin' Rogue," he declared, getting up.

"She's out in the garden," Jean said.

After he was gone she stared Logan and Scott down. "Not a word," she warned. "Don't you dare start cracking on him. Logan, you did the same thing with that girl a few months ago, what was her name? Melissa? Broke up with her and went out with her best friend two days later? And you didn't tell her you two were over either."

"She knew it was over," Logan said amiably, leaning back in his chair with a particularly devilish grin on his face. "She was a hooker."

Jean's jaw dropped. Logan burst out laughing. Scott tried to keep a straight face, but ended up laughing too. 

"You two!" Jean spluttered, got up with all the dignity of a queen, and marched out of the room.

Rogue was in the garden, just as Jean had said. "Ah doan wanna talk to yah, Remy," she declared, not looking at him. "Ya hurt mah feelin's."

"Den jus' listen, chere," he said, coming to a stop behind her. He began to sing.

__

"Here we are again.

I guess it must be fate.

We've tried it on our own

But deep inside we've known

We'd be back to set things straight…"

Rogue turned to look at him, her green eyes filling with tears, and he plunged on.

__

"After all the stops and starts

We keep coming back to these two hearts

Two angels who've been 

Rescued from the fall

And after all that we've been through

It all comes down to me and you

I guess it's meant to be

Forever you and me after all."

She sighed as he finished, and came forward to hug him, anger gone. "Ah'm sorry, Remy," she said.

He brought his hand up to stroke her back, feeling warm skin through the thin fabric of her shirt. "F'r what, chere? Remy de one who's sorry. I didn' t'ink what you were going t'rough."

"Ah knew you weren't serious 'bout Cat. And ah went an' got mad at yah anyway."

Remy patted her back gently. "Remy be sorry too, chere. Remy been playin' wit' two girls, an' I wasn' bein' fair to eit'er one o' you."

There was silence for a moment, then she said, 'Are yah goin' ta see her today?"

"I guess I better, non? Remy got some explainin' t'do."

Remy took a last puff of his cigarette and tossed the stub away, then got out of his truck and made his way up the three flights of steps to Cat's apartment. He knocked twice and waited.

The door didn't open. Puzzled, he knocked again. Her motorcycle was in its usual spot, and her car, a little blue Miata, was parked in its place. He knocked again.

A dreadful thought crossed his mind. What if something had gone wrong with her 'business" the night before? He could think of a lot of things that could go wrong with an assassin's work.

He retraced his steps to the by-now-familiar route up the fire escape, and ascended quickly. He pulled open the window and stepped inside.

The smell of blood hit him as soon as he stepped inside. He looked around in disbelief. Blood smears on the carpet led off to the right, into the bathroom. He ran to the door.

Cat lay huddled on the floor. She was wearing the blue dress she had worn on their date, but now it was shredded, torn and bloody. He knelt next to her and turned her over. "Cat," he whispered, shocked.

Her entire body was covered with bloody red welts, and there was an angry red R burned into one of those smooth perfect breasts. Her face was flushed, her breathing erratic, but her hands were ice cold. "Mon Dieu," he cried softly, "What happen to you?" 

Her eyes fluttered open, and her glazed eyes focused on him. "Remy?" she moaned. She tugged the shreds of her dress around her in a futile attempt to cover herself, but gave up the attempt. "Go away," she sobbed, her eyes wild and her face flushed, "please go away, I don't want you to see me like this, oh God I hurt…" her voice trailed off.

"Not goin' anywhere, p'tite," he said, keeping his voice pitched low and soothing. He leaned down to help her up, but she shrank away from him and cringed back against the tub shaking with sobs. He ignored it, taking her under the arms, trying not to touch the welts, and helped her up. He led her, step by step, into her bedroom, threw back the covers and laid her down on the bed, then picked up her bedside phone and dialed the mansion's number.

Rogue and Storm were in the kitchen putting a load of groceries in the refrigerator when the phone rang. "Charles Xavier's residence," Storm answered.

Remy sounded frantic when he spoke. "'Ro, where be Hank?"

"In his lab, I believe," she said. "What is wrong?"

"Remy come in here an' fin' her, mon dieu, she be all torn up, someone beat her bad, I didn' wan' to move her so Hank gotta come here an' take a look at her--"

"Remy, slow down," she said. "Found who?"

"Cat," he said desperately, and took a deep breath. "'Ro, I came to talk to her, an' when she didn' open her door I wen' in anyway. She was lyin' in her bat'room, bleedin' on de floor, an' her body be all torn up…She need a doctor bad, but dere be odd questions if I call de police."

"Hank and I will be right there," she said.

"Hurry! We're at de Town an' Country apartments." and Remy hung up.

She turned, to see Rogue looking at her. "Something terrible happened to Cat," she answered the questioning look. "Remy was unwilling to call the police. He wants us to bring Hank there to check her out."

"Ah'll go get the van ready," Rogue said. "You go an' get Hank."

It took almost a half an hour to get to the apartment complex Gambit had specified, and the trio got a few odd looks as they alighted from the van. Hank took the steps at a dead run, two at a time, as they groaned at the weight. Rogue knocked, and the door was pulled open by a very worried Gambit.

"T'ank de Lor' you're here," he said to Hank, who was carrying his medical bag. "She in de bedroom." He showed Hank and the two women into the room.

After he had gotten off the phone with Storm he'd taken the shredded clothing off as carefully as he could, dampened a kitchen towel and tried to clean her off. The worst of the blood and mud was off her skin, revealing her wounds. Hank bent over her immediately, his lips thinning into a compressed lie as he examined the wounds, oblivious to the fact that she was nude. The sheets under her were bloody, and he asked Remy, "Do the lacerations cover her back as well?"

Rogue helped Remy turn the unconscious body over so Hank could inspect the woman's back. She was shocked. She had wanted to meet the girl, but not like this!

Hank gave a distressed _tsk_ noise and reached into his bag. "The surface lacerations are superficial," he said to Remy, "But the brand on her chest is infected. I'm going to start her on a course of antibiotics to combat the infection. I wish I could take her to the mansion, but for I now I believe it best that she not be moved."

Remy blinked, struck by what Hank had said. "A brand?"

"I find it difficult to believe that the burn could have accidentally arranged itself into so definite a shape," Hank said grimly. "Or that she would have inflicted such pain upon herself. No, someone else injured her, most likely while she was restrained and unable to defend herself, judging by the abrasions on her wrists."

Remy looked positively anguished at this news. "I should have made her tell me what was wrong when I see her las'," he said, more to himself than the others. Rogue placed a gentle hand on his back.

"Don' worry, Remy," she comforted him. "She'll pull through. We'll take turns staying here an' watchin' her till Hank says she's gonna be okay."

He nodded. "An excellent idea," he said. "I believe I will return to the mansion, then, and pick up a few more items I need from the lab. "Ro, will you drive me?"

"Certainly," and they left.

Rogue touched Gambit's arm. "Don' blame yahself, sugah," she said. "Ain't gonna do her any good, an you just goin to make yehself miserable. Come on. The infection won' go away if she jus lays there on dirty sheets."

So Gambit held Cat as Rogue stripped the sheets from her bed, and laid towels on the mattress instead. When he looked questioningly at her, he said, "It's gonna be easier ta change towels than the bed, sugah."

He nodded in comprehension.

Cat opened her eyes. For a moment all she saw was white ceiling above her, then as she turned her head she saw her dresser, her closet, her lamp. She thought back, and dimly remembered climbing into her window and getting into her bathroom before she passed out. There was a dim, fevered recollection of Remy coming in, talking to her, and she fuzzily remembered that she had told him to go away.

She lay back on her bed for a moment, mentally cataloguing her injuries. She couldn't feel anything. She opened her eyes, weakly pushed the blanket draped over her body, and pulled up the oversized T-shirt someone had dressed her in, and examined her skin. There were very few open welts left, most were scabbed over and partially healed. She bit her lip at the thick bandage taped over the brand on her chest. Her hands shook as she pulled it back.

Underneath, the skin was an angry red, the edges of the brand swollen and throbbing. She grimaced and replaced the bandage, then pushed the blankets back and sat up. She stood gingerly, found her balance, and walked to the door. She had opened it and almost stepped out when she heard voices. She stopped as she heard one, a female voice with a pronounced Southern drawl, mention her name.

"…Cat's goin' ta be upset," said the woman, "but Ah doan think it's right to keep leadin' her on, Remy. She got feelin's that can be hurt too, even if she ain't a mutant lahk us."

'You're right, chere," Remy said, as Cat peeked around the door. He stood in her living room, next to a tall, beautiful woman with thick auburn curls and a vivid, exotic silver streak through them. As she watched, he pulled the other woman close, and she accepted the embrace with an easy familiarity that spoke of long association. 

Cat bit her lip, her eyes filling with tears. She should have known that he had someone else in his life. He was too wonderful to not have someone already. He hadn't told her, either, and she felt a tear fall down her cheek. That broke the dam, and she sobbed.

Remy turned as he heard the strangled sob from behind the door. He ran to it, opened it, and saw Cat slumped to the floor, her face buried in her hands. She had heard them.

"P'tite," he whispered, trying to pull her hands from her face so he could look into her eyes, "Cat, look at me, please. I didn' mean to hurt you, really…"

She pulled away from him, going to her dresser and finding a pair of jeans, pulling them on over her welted, sore legs. "I should have known," she spat angrily, using her anger to combat the agony from the rough fabric touching the still-raw welts. "Very few people take out contracts on someone who doesn't deserve them. When Belladonna came to us to put a contract on your life I accepted it, not knowing what you were like. Then I met you, and I started to think she was mistaken, that you weren't the cold-blooded murderer of her brother that she told us you were. I told the Master that I didn't think you deserved to die, that she must be mistaken, and got punished for my pains. I went out with you to the restaurant, and I saw him there, and I knew he'd seen us, and he'd be angry. I should have left right there, shouldn't I? 

"Instead I stayed with you! I made love to you that night, remember? And the Master found out, called me to him, and punished me. I took it, damn you, I took it! He whipped me all over and then branded me for defying him and for loving you. And I was just a distraction for you, wasn't I? You, the all-powerful mutant, playing with me and my feelings. Well, I was wrong about you. I thought you really cared. You're no different from anyone I've ever taken out." She picked up her purse, hissing with pain as it hit her raw back. "Don't follow me. I'll fulfil my contract and kill you if I ever see you again." And with that she stalked out of her bedroom, slipping on her shoes and opened her door. She slammed it behind her and headed for the garage. Moments later, Gambit watched from her window as her blue Miata screeched out of the parking garage.

He looked at Rogue. "Remy make a mess o' t'ings, non, chere?"


	7. Betrayal

Chapter 7: Betrayal

He looked up as his Assassin came in the door, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. He permitted himself an inward chuckle of satisfaction at the downcast eyes, but didn't allow any trace of his amusement to cross his face as he silently showed her down the steps to the Assignment Room and sat down at the table. "Kneel," he commanded her, and she did, obediently.

He studied her for a while, noting her downcast eyes and properly submissive posture. In the four days she'd been gone, she had healed a bit; he knew that was because of the visitors she'd had going into and out of her apartment. Apparently the mark cared enough about her that he would help her, but the Master had seen him standing in one of Cat's windows with a beautiful green-eyed woman. He wondered when his little cat would realize that the mark she'd defied her Master for was the property of another woman. Apparently she'd just found out, and she wasn't happy with the idea. She had come back to him, as he knew she would. That was good; he'd use her wounded feelings and hurt pride to bring this contract to a close.

Cat knelt at his feet, eyes lowered. She knew he was still mad at her, but maybe if she promised she would bring the mark down she could get back into his good graces. Her knees began to hurt, and her feet were tingling from the lack of circulation when he finally spoke. 'What brings you here, Bloodcat?"

She kept her eyes lowered. "I am sorry, Master, and I beg of you to accept my apology. He is not what I thought. I thought he was good, and undeserving of his fate, but you were right. I was wrong. I thank you for correcting me, and I want to return to your service."

He waited a long time, keeping her hanging, as he laughed inwardly in triumph. So the little cat finally realized the error of her ways! He kept his face carefully impassive as he cupped her chin and pulled her face up to look at him. Even then she flicked her eyes up at his and then lowered them immediately, as if ashamed. "Apology accepted," he said silkily. "However, I am not quite convinced of your sincerity. "

"How may I prove it, Master?" she said.

He leaned back, thankful that her eyes were lowered so she couldn't see the triumphant smile spread across his face. He couldn't suppress it. "You must bring the mark here," he said to her. "Bring him here, and kill him here in front of me.

"I'll do it," she said immediately. She started to rise.

"Oh, not now," he said smoothly, arresting her movement. "You are not yet healed sufficiently. Relax here for a while, my dear, and heal. Then you can go and get him."

Cat dipped the scrub brush into the soapy water and attacked another spot on the floor. She scrubbed determinedly, remembering his admonition that he wanted to see the floor cleaned completely by the time he came down that night when the shop closed. It wasn't an easy job; the floor hadn't been cleaned in what seemed like years.

It was penance, he said, for being disobedient. She wore a humiliatingly skimpy maid's uniform, was on her hands and knees scrubbing his floor, and would soon be required to cook his dinner, as she had every night for the last week. She would wait kneeling at his feet until he finished, and he would set the plate with its leftovers on the floor. She would sit there and eat it, then do the dishes. When he was ready to go to bed, she was required to help him undress, undress herself, and sleep in his bed. She bore it all, determined to prove she was trustworthy again.

She thought about Remy. What was he doing now? Was he with that pretty woman? Cat scrubbed harder, angry. He had led her on, playing with her feelings, making her think he loved her. She felt a blush tinge her cheeks. The duet on the piano…oh, it seemed like a lifetime ago. She really had meant the song she sang.

Oddly enough, now that she thought of it, so had he. He had been sincere when he had sung that song to her. And come to think of it, he never really had said he loved her. Had she just imagined that he loved her because she wanted so badly to believe it? He had been kind, flirtatious, charming, but he'd never told her it was anything but momentary. She sat back on her heels, stunned. Maybe it had all been in her head. Maybe she'd imagined it because she wanted to believe it.

But he did care about her, she was certain of that. He was so careful and gentle when he'd worked the salve into her sore back, and he'd been so distressed at her pain. The Master said he loved her, but he seemed to enjoy her discomfort, and besides handing her a tube of ointment he hadn't tried to help her heal. Instead he was humiliating her, subordinating her every chance he got.

She bitterly regretted having walked out on Remy that day; she hadn't given him a chance to explain. She prided herself on being fair; her sense of right and wrong had helped her take out and mete out appropriate justice to her marks. Where had her common sense gone that day?

Well, it was too late. The Master had said they would plan tonight for what she would do to bring Remy here. She still felt a pang when she thought of his dying, but she tamped it down ruthlessly and told herself that once he was gone, her life could go back to the way it was, and she'd be able to bring back a tiny measure of her freedom again.

Remy slammed out of the bar, cursing under his breath. He'd been looking for Cat all over the city for a week now, showing everyone he saw a picture of her he'd found in her apartment. She hadn't been back there; he'd had to pick her lock every time he came in.

He started his bike wearily, heading downtown to her apartment complex. He kept riding by there, hoping that he'd see the light on in her window, hoping to see her home so he could explain. He approached the building with a bit of hope that was quickly quenched as he saw the window dark. She wasn't home, then.

Where could she be? He lit a cigarette as he thought. She wasn't home, she wasn't anywhere he could find her. He sighed. Maybe if he checked at the shop where she had her bike repaired, maybe they'd seen her.

He tossed his cigarette butt away into a puddle, watched it fizzle out. He watched the reflection mirrored in the water, a reflection of a window suddenly lightening. He looked up, idly, to see which window it was. He jumped as if he'd been shot. Cat's window!

He took the stairs running, and knocked on her door. She answered, and looked coldly at him as she saw him. "What?" she snapped.

He took a deep breath. "P'tite, I know you're angry," he said. "Please, let me explain." She looked for a moment like she was going to slam the door, then stepped back. He took that as an invitation and walked in.

She went into her kitchen, picked up her dishtowel and continued to dry her dishes as she said, "Talk." He stuttered for a moment, but as she pinned angry blue eyes on him, he found his voice. 

"I never meant to hurt you, p'tite," he said quietly, pleadingly. "Rogue an' I, we go way back. We been toget'er off an' on, for a long time. Dat de way t'ings always been. A few weeks ago we get in an argument, and I get mad. I walk out on her. Den I meet you soon after, an you remind me of her, an' I guess I pick t'ings up wit' you because my feeling get hurt 'cause Rogue not talking to me. We patch t'ings up, an' we back toget'er again. I'm sorry if I make you t'ink somet'ing be goin' on dat ain't, p'tite."

"Oh, Remy," she said, dropping into a chair, anger gone. She had been thinking things over, and now what she suspected was true. She had just imagined it. 

There was a gentle tinkle of glass, and they both looked up. There were two glowering, hulking brutes standing in her apartment from the fire escape. Remy had barely enough time to note their presence when they jumped him. Caught by surprise, he couldn't fight as they draped a restraining collar over his head, keeping him from using his powers. Then the second man grabbed the heavy crystal vase off the table and smashed it over his head, and he slid into blackness.

He awoke in the back of a car, a blindfold wrapped around his throbbing head, covering his eyes, and his wrists tied behind him with heavy rope. He could hear voices, Cat's and that of one of the other two men, he supposed. He listened, giving them no indication he was awake.

"The Master sent us to be sure you carried out his instructions," one voice said. "You backed out of this mark once; he wanted to make sure you don't back out again. Remember, this mark is worth forty thousand to him, and sixty thousand to you."

Remy blinked under the heavy linen. Belladonna had paid a hundred thousand dollars for him? He was dead, then. Without being able to use his powers he couldn't escape. Oh, what he wouldn't give to have Jean's telepathic powers! He could call the others, and they would find him. He clenched his teeth. He might not have telepathic powers, but he could fight his way out, if he was patient, and waited for a chance.

When the car stopped it took all his willpower to remain quiet and still. He nearly yelped as his head knocked against the edge of the floor of the vehicle, but bit his lip and stayed silent. He heard the tinkle of a shop bell, the kind that shopkeepers hung on their doors to tell them someone was entering and leaving, then the air around him suddenly smelled cool and a bit musty. He tried to identify the scent, which was a little familiar, but couldn't place it. He wished he had Logan's senses; the man would have been able to tell him everything about the shop and how many people were here. All he could smell was dust.

He felt himself descending, slung over one man's shoulder, and smelled male sweat from an unwashed body. His nose wrinkled in distaste. Then a sudden lurch as they reached a level surface, and he was pulled roughly off the man's shoulders and dropped roughly to the floor. The tablecloth was yanked from his head, and the blindfold was yanked off. He forced his face to remain immobile.

The Master looked up as his Assassins came through the door. Scar came first, hauling a limp man after him, and Stalker followed, gripping Cat's arm firmly. He _tsk_ed in annoyance. "My dear, I thought you had learned your lesson," he said. Cat stayed silent.

He pulled his foot back and kicked Remy as hard as he could. Gambit couldn't stay quiet after that; he grunted and curled over as best he could with his hands bound behind him. The man laughed cruelly, the sound sending shivers up and down his spine, and grabbed Remy's hair, yanking him up to meet his gaze, then backhanded him as hard as he could.

Remy knew instinctively that this was the man who had tortured Cat. He had a cruel smile, silver hair, and a face that was all harsh planes and angles. The ice in his eyes made Gambit grit his teeth. "Kick a man when he down, homme?" he said, smiling unpleasantly. "Not very honorable."

The man grinned, but it was a mirthless smile, and it didn't touch his eyes. "There is no such thing as honor anymore," he said, eyes glittering. "Only money. And you are worth a great deal of it. I would have had you killed quickly if you had not subverted my Assassin again, but you did and now you will pay for what you did. Or rather, you will watch her pay for her weakness in giving in to you."

The man holding Cat's arm shoved her forward, and she stumbled to her knees beside Gambit. He felt her hand caress the bruise on his cheek for a moment, then trail lower, to his jaw and his neck, where she paused for a second, then kissed him passionately, her arms wrapping around his neck. He stared in disbelief into her blue eyes as she winked. He was trying to decipher what she'd done that for when another man came forward, pulled her away from him, and ripped off the light dress she wore. She cringed at the Master's feet, wearing only her underclothes, as the one who had manhandled her went to a tall cabinet across the room and opened it. Gambit's eyes widened in horror as he saw the man pull from it a long, vicious-looking black bullwhip. He handed it to the one Gambit now knew was the Master.

He commanded sharply, "Pick her up. Secure her to that post there." Gambit struggled in his bonds as he saw them drag Cat to a thick pole that was part of the building supports, and wrap a long rope around her wrists twice. Then they wrapped the other end around the post above her head and left her struggling there.

The Master dropped the whip for a moment, yanking a long knife out of his belt as he went to her helpless body. For a moment Gambit thought he was going to cut her throat, but he instead grabbed a handful of her long chestnut hair and cut it off. The knife tangled in the strands and yanked unmercifully, and she sobbed in pain.

When it was all hacked off, he stepped back, sheathing the knife and picking the whip up. Gambit realized what he was going to do, and looked alarmed at Cat's bare back. The welts from her previous beating hadn't fully healed yet; the whip would reopen the wounds. "Non!" he called, struggling furiously in his bonds, getting up to his knees and trying to lunge for the Master desperately. "No, don'!"

The collar around his neck lurched almost imperceptibly as he struggled, and he stilled as he felt it. He twisted his neck around again, and this time felt a definite give in the collar. He set about struggling in earnest as he figured it out. She had unlocked his collar as she kissed him.

It fell with a clank to the floor, distracting the Master from his sport momentarily, and he looked around momentarily. He blinked in surprise, caught off guard for a scant moment, and that moment was enough. Gambit channeled his kinetic energy through his hands, and the rope around his wrists disappeared with a small, controlled explosion. He reached for the pack of cards he always kept in his back pocket, and charged one up, flinging it at the post above Cat's head. The post disintegrated, along with the rope, and she was free. He circled to her side warily as the other assassins closed in. He counted. Twelve of them. There was no way they would survive twelve trained assassins.

Cat knew that too, and the wheels of her mind began to turn, trying to find them a way out. She suddenly remembered the door she had seen when she was cleaning; it was probably another escape tunnel. 

He flung cards here and there, not doing any damage but keeping the Assassins at bay, circling them warily. Cat pressed her back to his, watching the others. Stalker became impatient, and charged her, yelling, sword stretched out in front of him, intending to impale them both on its blade.

She stepped forward, one hand going to grab the blade, the other going for his fist wrapped around the hilt of the sword. She barely felt the steel bite deeply into her palm, so fiercely was she concentrating on wrenching the sword out of his fist. She sank her nails deep into his hand, where the tendons held his thumb onto his hand, and when he howled and dropped the sword, she wrested it from his grasp. Now she had a weapon. "Keep your back to me, Remy!" she instructed.

"No problem, chere," he said. "Do you have a plan? 'Cause Remy running out of cards."

She began to move toward the forgotten exit, the sword in her hand making shining arcs in the air before her. Scar, one of the others, got a wickedly deep slash on his arm and fell back, howling, the arm nearly severed. The man who had carried Remy so roughly rushed forward in what he thought was an unguarded moment, and got his legs sliced off for his trouble. His screams seemed to incite the others to fury, and Gambit charged another card and threw it into the face of another attacker. His hands came up to his ruined face, to his eyes, and he fell back, screaming as blood coated his hands. Gambit didn't spare a glance. It was either him and Cat, or the Assassins. And he was determined, if they were going to win the battle, he'd take out as many as he could before they were killed.

Over the screams of the wounded and Cat's panted breaths he heard the deeper voice of the Master inciting his Assassins to greater effort. He was screaming in fury, spit flying out of his mouth, and a small part of Gambit's mind suddenly realized why he tortured Cat. He was jealous. He wanted her for himself. He filed that bit of knowledge away and concentrated on the battle in front of him.

She reached the door, and in one swing of the blade she severed another Assassin's arm and sliced away the thin piece of wood that blocked the door. She grunted to Remy as she severed a head cleanly from a black-clad shoulder, "Get in." 

He hesitated. "P'tite…" 

"Go!" she snapped. He went into the gaping black hole a short distance, and stumbled over a step. He put a foot on the step, found another one. He turned, in time to see Cat swing the sword against the rotting wood of the doorframe where the hinges were, and the door fell closed with a crash. She sprinted up the steps, pushing him up the steps in front of him. "It's not going to be long before they're after us," she gasped, winded. "Go!"

His head suddenly smacked into a hard wooden surface overhead, and he brought his hands up, kinetically charging the door. "Look out, p'tite!" he said, and crouched over her as the door exploded. They erupted into bright sunlight, and he blinked the spots from his eyes as he climbed over a jumble of concrete blocks and building debris. As she scrambled clear he placed his hands on the wooden beams around the opening, and charged them. He didn't stop there, though. Concentrating, he poured all his energy into charging the surrounding pavement, and Cat watched in awe as the red glow climbed the wall of the bookshop. He waited until he heard the yells of their pursuers in the dark stairway below then pulled his hands away and released the charge. He wrapped his arms around Cat and pulled her down behind the debris pile, covering her nearly nude body with his as the sections of wall and pavement blew. Stone and chunks of brick, glass, and wood rained around them, and Gambit felt the woman tremble under him fearfully. They didn't move again until the debris stopped flying.

He got up, helping her to her feet, and looked her over critically. He had been wearing his uniform, so the body armor he wore had protected him from the worst of the debris, and she, sheltered under him, had escaped any serious injury. She did have a lot of dust and glass shards in her raggedly cut hair, and her legs bled in several places where glass had cut her, but she was otherwise okay. 

She looked at him, looked at the remnants of the building, and said "Wow!"


	8. End of the Assassins

Chapter 8: The End of the Assassins

"What happened to you?!" Hank exclaimed as Gambit sauntered into the infirmary with Cat limping along beside him. He bustled about, getting both of them settled onto beds. Cat pulled off Remy's long brown duster and handed it back to him with a smile, and Hank raised a blue furry eyebrow at her state of undress, but refrained from comment. He scanned her quickly, and went about the infirmary, collecting the things he'd need.

Cat stared around the infirmary. There were a lot of things in this room she'd never seen in a hospital, and she saw something written on the edge of one console that didn't look like any writing she'd ever seen. 

She leaned over from where she sat and asked Remy in a whisper, "What's all this?"

He grinned at her. "Dis is our hospital, p'tite. We can't exactly go to a regular hospital when we get hurt."

She sat back, thinking about that. No, they couldn't.

They had limped away from the scene, gone around the building to see if they could use one of the cars to get home. No cigar; the building had fallen on the cars that were parked there. So they'd gone down the street a few blocks, where Remy had gone into Crossroads and asked the bartender if he could borrow his car, as his bike had stalled on the road. The man (an old friend, apparently) had given Remy the keys to a beat up old Monte Carlo, and he had persuaded her to go back home with him. Unable to repress her curiosity about where he lived, she agreed.

"Dere it is, p'tite," he said, pointing ahead through the trees to where she could see an impressive structure just clearing the tops of the trees. As they had pulled up, she'd been nonplussed by the sight of the huge iron gates in the middle of the road. Gambit had punched a code into the keypad beside the door and driven through nonchalantly, and if Cat hadn't been so damn tired she would have gotten out of the car and run the other way right then and there, because the place was _enormous_. She couldn't imagine living in a place like that. A mansion, with two wings branching off the main building, a garage that looked like it held a fleet of vehicles, and more gently rolling green lawn than she'd ever seen in her life. She'd gaped as she stepped out of the car, barefoot and wearing Remy's coat over her bare shoulders. "It's _huge!_" she'd exclaimed.

She was even more impressed when she stepped into the foyer, with its gleaming floors and sweeping staircases, and Remy looked around, seeing it as she would see it. Yes, it was impressive.

He had brought her straight down to the infirmary. Hank was now making those disapproving noises about the condition of her back, and bandaged her hand tight to stop the bleeding. Fortunately the blade hadn't cut too deep, he told her, she would still be able to use the hand, though there would be a scar. Gambit left her twitching nervously under his hands as he went upstairs.

Logan was the first to see him, coming out of his room. "Hey, Gumbo!" he exclaimed, slapping Remy on the back. "Thought ya'd skipped out on us again! Where've ya been?"

"Rescuing a damsel in distress," Remy joked. "I wen' to Cat's apartment, lookin' for her. I was sittin' dere explaining about Rogue an' me to her when a couple o' her fellow assassins broke in and hit me on de head. Dey kidnapped bot' o' us an' took us to dere base. De leader o' de Assassins try to hurt her an' kill me, but she manage to get us free, an den I exploded de building aroun' dem when we got outta dere. I'm trying t'fin' Jean, maybe she got some clot'es she can lend Cat."

He walked a little further down the hall and knocked on Jean and Scott's room door. "Jean?" he called.

She opened the door. "Remy! We were worried! We didn't know where you were!" she said, hugging him. 'Where were you?"

"Later, Red," he said. "Look, Remy came to ask you a favor. Cat be down in de infirmary wit' Hank; she don' got not'in to wear. Can you lend her somet'in' till she get home? She abou' de same size as you."

"Sure," Jean said. She disappeared into the room, coming back moments later with a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

They went down to the infirmary, and Cat accepted the clothes with thanks. Hank spoke to Remy as she disappeared into the nearby bathroom to change. "She will be fully recovered in a week's time, Remy. Her wounds were not properly cared for while she was gone, but it did not make a very big difference after all. She will have some scars, but they will not be as noticeable as the earlier ones. Her hand will be scarred, but she will have full use of it."

Remy smiled. "T'ank you, Hank."

"Don't mention it," he said. 

Cat joined them moments later, wearing the clothes and looking a good deal happier. "Thanks so much," she said to Jean. "I promise I'll bring them back."

Jean waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it," she said. 

The infirmary door opened just then, and Rogue walked in. "Storm says that dinner's ahmost ready," she said to the room at large, though her eyes were fixed on Cat.

There was complete silence for a time, then Cat stepped forward and took Rogue's gloved hand. "You're a very lucky girl to have Remy," she said. "But if there ever comes a time when you don't want him, could you pass him to me?"

Rogue grinned. "Sure," she said. "Though why yah'd want sucha contrary boy is beyond me."

"Hey, you're the one who's going out with him," Cat joked. Rogue shoved her in mock playfulness, gently, as Remy looked indignant. They all laughed. Rogue said, "'Fore Gambit fergits, welcome to the mansion, and we'd love it if yah stayed fer dinner."

"Really?" Cat said. She looked around, then nodded. "Okay. Dinner before I go home."

She sat at the table, watching the X-Men bustle around, bringing various side dishes to the table. She looked up as an older man came up to the table, smiling at her. She stared, openmouthed, at his…well, she'd call it a wheelchair, but it didn't have wheels!

He smiled in gentle amusement at her dumbfounded look. "It's a gift from a friend who lives quite a bit away from here," he said dryly. "Some of our medical equipment comes from her as well. I believe you've seen it." He smiled and held out a hand to her. "My name is Charles Xavier," he said. "These are my X-Men."

"Nice to meet you," Cat stammered. Her life was just too complicated to even think about equipment from a foreign source. Xavier disguised his amusement as he slid into his place at the table. If she only knew how far…

One by one the others trickled into the dining room, and Remy introduced them to her. Cat recognized their names from the news; Logan, the short, powerfully built, feral man codenamed Wolverine; The tall, beautiful red-haired woman and the handsome brown-haired man at her side were introduced to her as Jean and Scott. "Also known as Phoenix and Cyclops," Remy said as she shook Scott's hand. "An' dis be Ororo," he indicated the statuesque, regal African woman coming out of the kitchen with a dish of vegetables. "Warren an' Betsy, an' you met Rogue, an' dis here's Bobby…" and he went about introducing her to the rest of the X-Men as they came in and sat down to dinner.

The food was delicious, but Cat was too busy staring around the table to really notice what she was eating. Betsy asked Jean to pass the mashed potatoes from the ends of the table where she sat, and Jean, never missing a beat in her conversation with Scott, telekinetically lifted the bowl in the air and sent it sailing down the table. Betsy plucked it out of the air casually and helped herself, then Jean returned it to its place on the table. It was one of the most interesting dinners she'd ever had, and she was almost sorry when it was over and she found herself outside getting into the truck with Remy.

"I had a lovely time," she said as they climbed the steps to her apartment door. "Remy, thank you. I'm sorry I didn't give you a chance to explain…" she fell silent as he placed a finger on her lips.

"Remy sorry he didn' t'ink 'bout t'ings 'fore he start flirtin' wit' you," he said, kissing her forehead gently. "I f'rgive you if you f'rgive me."

"Deal." And before he could pull away, she wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a long, lingering kiss on his lips. He resisted for a moment, but she wouldn't let him go, and he relaxed his lips, letting her have her way with his mouth…

They broke the kiss finally, and she stepped back, blushing, and fumbled under her floormat. He stared as she came up with a small key taped to the underside of it. "I tend to forget my key sometimes," she said as she inserted it into the lock and opened the door. They stepped in and she flicked on the light.

A black-clad figure rose slowly from her couch where it had been lounging, and turned around, and she gave a scream of shock and horror. The Master stood before them, splattered with blood, one eye socket empty, the other eye burning redly in its place. Cat stared at the ghastly apparition in silence, then grabbed her sword from its stand by the door and drew it, placing herself between the former Master of Assassins and Remy.

"You survived," she said coldly, fear gone. She held the sword out in front of her as she advanced on him. "Not for long, though."

Remy made a sudden movement toward the two combatants, circling each other, only to feel the flat of Cat's blade slap him, firmly, back toward the door. "No, Remy," she said evenly, "he's mine."

"Don' kill him, p'tite," he warned, but Cat wasn't listening.

The Master stared at the girl in front of him, face distorted in hatred. "How could you betray me like this?" he hissed at her angrily. "I took you in when you wanted to die! I gave your life meaning, a purpose, gave you training to accomplish that purpose! I even gave you access to all the accounts so you could have everything you wanted! How could you treat me like this?"

When she spoke her voice was shaking with anger. "You turned me into a killer. That's not what I am, deep inside. I may have been good at it, but it's not who I am inside. You never understood that. All the money in the world wouldn't bring back my husband and my baby boy, and I cringe to think what they would think if they saw me today." She swung at him with her sword.

He sidestepped it neatly, and they continued to circle as Remy watched helplessly. "Did you know I'm a mutant?" he said in a deceptively mild voice, and Cat's eyes narrowed. "I can 'tune in' or synchronize with any mutant energy signature. When your lover here kinetically charged the building, my ability tuned into his, and I was almost immune to his blast when the building exploded. A falling block knocked out my eye, but I survived to get here."

He laughed, and a trickle of blood bubbled up from the corner of his mouth. "That kinetic energy ids still trapped inside me, waiting to get out," he said. "All I have to do is keep you here until it explodes."

She swung, and caught his leg with the sharp edge as he spoke. He tripped, fell back onto the thick carpet, blood spurting from a nearly severed leg. She stepped up to him, placing the point of her sword at his throat, aiming for a mortal blow.

"Don' kill him, chere," Remy said, taking a step forward. "Killin' him ain't goin' to solve not'in'."

She snarled. "Why shouldn't I? It'll get him out of my life permanently. I'll never have to worry about him again."

He stepped forward, reaching out but not quite touching, her rigid back. "Cat, killin don' solve not'in. Never did. I hated Belladonna's brot'er, you know dat? I t'ought killin' him was goin' to be so easy. An' after I did it, I didn' feel not'in but shame, and guilt. Don' kill him, Cat. He not wort' de shame an' de guilt."

She was silent for a long moment, then raised her sword and brought it down.

Remy thought, for one shocked moment, that she really had given in to her hatred and killed him, and he flinched, covering his eyes with his hand. When the man's screaming didn't stop, though, he risked a peek through his hands.

Her sword had stabbed deeply into his shoulder, leaving him screaming and wriggling on it like a worm impaled on a hook, but very much alive. He looked at her in disbelief.

"You were right," she said as he came over to stand by her, running a strong arm across her back and they looked down at the man writhing in front of them. He hugged her for a long moment, and she closed her eyes, leaning into his embrace for a long moment. 

His eyes flew open as he felt a hand grab his ankle, and she screamed and grabbed him, falling to her knees on the bloodstained carpet and trying to dislodge the Master's hand. Remy tried to shake off her grip on him; he knew what the man was trying to do. If he was connected physically to the Master when the man's body exploded, and was still holding Cat, she would die. He was immune to his own kinetic energy, of course, but she wasn't.

Cat still had one hand on Remy and one hand on the Master's wrist when she abruptly knew what would happen. She closed her eyes tight and summoned the faint bit of power she had, the only thing her mutant power could do, and threw a shield around both her and Remy, scant seconds before the Master of Assassins exploded. The room filled with blinding red light.

Remy came to, lying on carpet. He blinked dazedly, clearing the cobwebs out of his head, and then sat up.

Where the Master had lain on the carpet there was now only charred fibers and a few chunks of charred bone. Cat lay crumpled beside him, and he touched her gently. "Cat?"

She moaned, eyelids fluttering, and then sat up. She stared speechless at the remains on her floor, the mess in her apartment, and gulped. "That's some power you've got there."

"So is yours," he said, remembering the flash of blue light that had covered the two of them as the Master's body had exploded.

She shook her head. "That's the only thing I've ever been able to do with the ability I have," she said. "I can generate a shield around me that's one molecule thin. I can't even feel it usually, but it covers every inch of my body and whatever I'm touching, and I don't know how it works, but nothing gets through." She let go of his hand, and the blue light faded from around her. She rubbed her eyes wearily, and suddenly gasped as she stared at him.

"What wrong, p'tite?" he asked. She looked like she was seeing a ghost as she took his hand and pulled him in front of her living room mirror.

His reflection looked normal, until he looked harder. There was a faint blue light crackling around the outlines of his body. It was faint, and you couldn't see it unless you were really looking for it, but it was definitely there. "What de…?"

Hank ran every test he could think of, every scan he had in the medlab, on both Cat and Remy. All the scans came up with the same result; Cat might still have the mutant gene in her cells, but there was nothing she could do with them. Remy, on the other hand, found that if he concentrated really hard on it, he could bring that molecular shield up and down at will.

"It's the most mystifying thing I've ever seen," he said, scratching his head as he read the results of the test to Xavier, after Jean had left to inform everyone that Remy and Cat were going to be okay. "The mutant you were fighting, the Master of the Assassins, had his synching power 'on' at the time that the explosion occurred. Remy, when your body recognized the energy coming back at you it 'opened' itself to accept that energy. However, Cat was also in contact with the Master at the same time, and your body not only absorbed your own kinetic energy charge back, but it also absorbed Cat's shielding ability and a tiny measure of the Master's 'synching' ability. You, in effect, 'stole' his and her powers. It's too soon to tell whether it will be permanent or not, now, but it appears you have her shields."

Remy shook his head in astonishment. "How do Remy give it back?"

Hank looked sadly at Cat. "You can't, Remy. It's now a part of you."

The door flew open, and Rogue came pelting in at a full run, fresh from the pool. Her wet tennis shoe skidded on the clean tiled floor of the medlab. Without thinking Remy put a hand around her bare back to keep her from falling. "Thanks, Remy," she said absently, running a finger around the back of her tennis shoe to adjust it. Then the reality of what he'd just done sank in, and she turned to face him, expecting him to be crumpled on the floor out cold.

He was staring at her with the same stunned look that everyone else was giving both of them, except Cat. "Rogue," he whispered, shocked. Almost tentatively, he reached out to touch her cheek.

Rogue had to fight the ingrained urge to back off as that hand neared her face. She held very, very still as he touched her cheek, first with two fingers, then with his whole hand. She stared in disbelief as his hand rested on her face, feeling a faint warmth against the skin.

Remy bit his lip, bringing up his other hand to touch her bare shoulder. Still nothing. The molecular shield was preventing her power from leeching the life from him! He felt an incredulous chuckle escape his lips as he began to let his hands caress her, running down her arms, wandering across her back, feeling the skin of her neck. He could feel everything, the fine hairs at the nape of her neck, on her arms, but nothing was happening to him!

Rogue was suddenly laughing, feeling the happiness bubble up from deep inside her. She threw her arms around him, giggling, then pressed her lips to his. He opened his mouth, but she hung back, unwilling to press their luck. Maybe the molecular shielding didn't reach into his mouth, but he decided to try it anyway.

It did.

Cat watched them kiss with mixed feelings; she didn't understand. Xavier tore his eyes away from the happy couple, and leaned over to her. "Rogue's power prevents anyone touching her," he said gravely. "She has been cursed, as she puts it, with the ability to 'steal' someone's powers, personality, and if she touches them long enough, their memories and lifeforce. She can't touch anyone without gloves, or some kind of physical barrier."

Cat stared in awe. Rogue was a beautiful woman, and to never be able to touch anyone else…dear lord, Cat herself would go crazy. She let go of the tiny ball of resentment she had felt on finding out her power was no longer hers. If it could bring someone this much happiness, she had no problem letting go. 


	9. A New Life

Chapter 9: A New Life

The restaurant was crowded, as it usually was; Marcello's was a popular restaurant. The small group of people who came in didn't wait for the hostess to seat them, but went directly to the piano bar. The sprightly strains of an Irish traditional ballad meandered softly through the air as they seated themselves.

Remy pulled out Rogue's chair, kissed her as she sat, then sat himself in a chair beside hers. Jean pushed Charles' wheelchair up beside the table, and then took a seat beside Scott. Ororo sat, regal and beautiful, as always, to the left of Logan, who was fiddling with his tie. "Logan," she said to him gently, "stop fooling with it…"

Logan glowered. "If it weren't Cat's first performance here, I'd never have let ya talk me into puttin' on this monkey suit," and he untied his tie for the umpteenth time. Charles grinned as Ororo leaned over Logan and tied it for him… "and this time, Logan, leave it alone, for the Goddess's sake…"but there he went again, untying it, as the waitress brought over a tray with their wineglasses and filled them. Charles sat and listened with a slight smile to the conversations going on around him as he sipped his wine.

The lights dimmed, and a nervous, officious man came up to the podium as the previous player on the piano got up and left the stage. "And now, we at Marcello's are pleased to present to you one of the best players we've ever had here. She has graciously signed a contract with us to play here exclusively, so here she is, the lovely Catryne Steele!" 

The spotlight picked up a slim, graceful figure dressed in a sleek shimmering silver sheath coming out form behind the curtain. She looked out at the faces, doing her best not to squint into the bright lights, and saw, only a few yards from the stage, Xavier, Ororo, Jean, Scott, Logan, Remy, and Rogue sitting at a table applauding. She smiled then, and sat down at the piano, pulling the mike close to her mouth. 

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't some very special friends of mine," she said, her words for all the restaurant patrons but her smile for one particular table alone, "and if it weren't for the love, encouragement, and support they've given me, I wouldn't be here. I'd still be working in a job I hate, for a demanding boss I can't stand." There was an appreciative ripple of laughter as she paused. "So I'd like to dedicate my first song to them. "it's called, 'Remember Me This Way'."

Her fingers stroked over the keys, coaxing a ripple of lovely music from them, and then she began to sing.

__

"Every now and then

We find a special friend

Who never lets us down.

Who understands it all

Reaches out each time you fall,

You're the best friend that I've found…"

Logan leaned across the table. "Remy, I didn't know she had such a lovely voice," he said, but the others hushed him impatiently.

__

"I'll make a wish for you,

And hope it will come true

That life will just be kind

To such a gentle mind

And if you lose your way

Think back on yesterday

Remember me this way…"

After a few more songs she came to join them at the table, sipped a glass of water and listened to their profuse praise for her voice and singing. She had enough time to grab a quick bite, and she told them a little bit of what she'd been doing in the month since the Master had died.

"I went back to the building," she said, "and as far as I can tell no one else made it out before the building fell. I waited a week, and monitored the accounts that the Assassins have. No one made any attempt to touch them, so I took them. I donated the contents of five of the accounts to various worldwide charities, liquidated the physical assets and distributed that too, then I went and got selfish. I bought myself a house out in the suburbs, got myself a car, fixed up my bike, and left the rest alone. I figured someday I might find someone else I want to marry; after all, I'm only twenty-seven, and maybe I might have another child. I'd like that."

"Physical assets?" Remy questioned.

She nodded. "You didn't think the money was all we were getting, did you? in many cases, we had to take the valuables of the victims we took out so it would seem like a robbery, or a mugging. Some of the items I returned, but a great deal of it I couldn't figure out where it had come from, so I had the jewelry and valuables taken apart and discreetly sold. "I'm wealthy, independent…and I owe it all to you." she kissed Remy quickly and slipped a velvet box into his hand as she did. "Give it to her," she whispered into his ear. "It's not stolen, I promise." She got up and headed back up to the stage, sitting at the piano and beginning to play.

Gambit quietly placed the box on Rogue's plate when she wasn't looking without opening it, though he was dying to see what it was. The box was too big to be a ring.

Rogue turned back to the table after the last song, and saw the box on her plate. "Remy?" she gasped, opening it.

Inside lay an exquisite jewelry set; a gold choker with a large but tasteful emerald teardrop hanging from it; matching earrings, and a pretty emerald bracelet with tiny emerald drops on it. Rogue gasped, squealed and showed Jean, who laughed. Then she turned to Remy, picking up the necklace and handing it to him. He clasped it around her neck, then turned and gave her a long, lingering kiss.

The piano player on the stage smiled, and bent over the ivory keys.


End file.
